The Gravedigger Returns
by susan3241
Summary: What would happen if the Gravedigger ever returned? What if Brennan couldn't blow her way out this time? Would the squints have to pay the ransom? NOW COMPLETE! Yahoo! Rated T for mild language and suggestive themes...nothing over the top, I assure you.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Well, this is just an idea that I have had rolling around in my head. Review if you like!

**Disclaimer:** Bones is not mine. Please, don't sue.

**-CHAPTER 1-**

A thick layer of dirt smeared Brennan's face. The air was stale and musty, like that of a cellar. Her clothes were torn and tattered. She had a throbbing, merciless pain in her right foot, and no matter how hard she tried, lifting her left arm was just impossible.

She didn't want to open her eyes. She wondered if she could even do that; perhaps the grime had somehow managed to seal them shut. So with her good arm, she felt around her dismal surroundings. Brennan scooped up a handful of dusty pebbles and slowly sprinkled the contents back on the ground. She was definitely not in the lab. No, more than likely she was underground or outside in a cave.

_Perhaps it's all a dream,_ she told herself unconvincingly. Yet she knew that she was merely trying without success to comfort herself. Brennan was too strong-minded to dream about something as ludicrous as this. Dreams were the mind's way of sorting out thoughts; even if she did dream, Brennan could never remember them. There were too many other things dwelling in her brain to pay any mind to dreams.

With the good hand, she swiped the excess filth off her eyes. Slowly, she opened each eye, left before right. It was dark to say the least. Her suspicions were confirmed: she was indeed underground. This was by no means any dream. This was real…again.

Brennan tried to hoist herself up on her knees. The floor wasn't all dirt and stones and pebbles, rather it seemed to be carpeted with gray, coarse threads. Somehow, a great deal of dust and dirt seeped through. _Seeped through what?_ she thought. The four walls were straight at ninety degrees, indicating she was in a windowless cell.

Suddenly, her eyes caught something else. The outline of a grayish black figure was undoubtedly resting in a lump just four or five feet away from Brennan. Then it hit her, and it hit her hard: the Gravedigger. It was probably Hodgins.

She racked her brain for a clue, an inkling, anything that would remind her of last night's events. She came up dry. Wasn't that how it was before with the Gravedigger? She couldn't remember a thing. Maybe if she woke up Hodgins…

She crawled slowly and painfully, pausing after every movement of a muscle, to where Hodgins was sprawled out. He was breathing, which was a good sign. Maybe he wasn't as injured as Brennan.

"Jack," she whispered. "Jack! Wake up, Jack! It's Temperance."

The lump stirred, emitting a soft, agonizing groan while doing so. Hodgins groggily brought himself upward. "Where the hell am I?"

Brennan froze over with fear and understanding. That was NOT Hodgins's voice. It was more…masculine than Hodgins's. Oh, Lord, it was Booth's voice that she heard. How the hell had he managed to steal both Brennan and Booth?

It was silly, she knew, but she had always thought of Booth as invulnerable. He was all muscle and brawn. How could the Gravedigger possibly get a hold of him, too? As far as she knew, he didn't have any weaknesses. She'd never let him on to any of this, though; if his ego got any larger, he'd surely pop. Still, Booth just didn't seem like the kind of man who had a soft spot.

"Seeley?" She shook his shoulder, trying to make him gain consciousness. "Booth, is that you?"

Booth seemed to grunt and flutter his eyes open. It took him a minute or so to adjust to the pitch black lighting. "Bones, is that you? Where the hell are we?"

Brennan sighed relief. He was thinking. Better yet, he was forming words. That meant that both of them were healthy. Well, maybe not healthy, exactly, but at least they were both functioning satisfactorily.

"Listen, Booth," she said in grave seriousness. She only needed to say one word. "Gravedigger."

Though she couldn't see a thing, she was fairly confident that Booth was frowning. Indistinctively, she reached out and closed her hand over his. It comforted her. She was reminded that she was not alone in this. She had Booth.

"How long have we been down here?" Booth asked calmly.

Brennan was secretly happy that he didn't flinch or pull away. "I'm not certain. I remember Angela, babbling on about some party, and Hodgins, I think. He was…beside Angela or Zach. I don't remember which one. And then I woke up about ten minutes ago. I suppose all of that is irrelevant, though."

Without much warning, Booth let out a shrill cry of pain.

Brennan's heart skipped a beat. "Seeley! Seeley, are you alright? What happened?" she persisted, tightening her grip over his hand.

He struggled to get out his words, "I…It's my," he paused, sharply taking in a breath, "leg, I think. Just a cut, is all. Don't worry 'bout it, Bones."

Brennan creased her forehead in thought. This time, she was going to catch and personally kill the son of a bitch that did this to Booth. Oh, and herself. She tried to keep her thoughts rational.

'Okay, so Booth and I are buried in a box with four, equally sized walls. Assuming that we've been here for two or three hours, we've got roughly twenty left.'

"We've probably got twenty hours maximum left, Booth," she said dejectedly.

Booth nodded. There was silence for the next few moments. Neither of them really realized that the other wasn't speaking. Both of them were contemplating the formidable situation at hand.

Booth was lost in his thoughts of Parker. He had managed to convince himself that he was going to die. He had been through plenty worse in his times as a sniper and had come out alive. This time was different, though. He had seen first hand what the Gravedigger was capable of doing. He almost took Bones's life, and now he was about to do the same thing again, only this time, he was along for the ride. What would Parker do without a father? He had Drew, of course, and Rebecca.

Booth grimaced at the thought. _And a lot of help that bastard is._

Brennan's mind was wrapped around her Mother. She still didn't believe in heaven, or even hell for that matter, but Booth had always insisted that somewhere, somehow, Christine Brennan was watching over her. And she had done a pretty thorough job of convincing herself that it just wasn't possible. Now that she was this close to death, though, it solaced her to think about her Mother. Maybe, just maybe, she'd see her again.

Brennan grimaced at the thought. _And a lot of help thinking about the mother who abandoned you is._

"Twenty hours, huh?" Booth said gently.

"Yes," she said stiffly.

They only had twenty hours and thirty two minutes to live.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **This chapter is from Angela's point-of-view back at the lab. I'm alternating view points. It just makes the story run smoothly. One chapter will be from Brennan down in God know's where, and the other will be from Angela trying to figure out what's going on.

Reviews of any kind are always welcome. A **big** thank you to all who took the time to review. I have lots of lurkers out there...don't be shy! I promise I don't bite!

**Disclaimer:** Alas, I don't own Bones. Darn you, Fox!

**-CHAPTER 2-**

"Has anyone seen Brennan?" Angela asked, flicking warm eraser shavings off her notepad.

Hodgins was hunched over a microscopic, intently examining something-or-another. Angela didn't really understand a word when he attempted to explain what it was. "I think I saw her with Booth a few hours ago," he said distractedly.

"Look at this anomaly here on the victim's left tibia," Zach said to no one in particular. "She was struck here," Zach paused, indicating to the target spot on his shin, "with a spike of sorts. We should check to see if the groove is congruent with any of the farmer's pitch forks or hoes."

Angela rolled her eyes. She was in no mood for Zach's ramblings, especially without someone who was capable of shutting him up. "Where the hell is Cam?"

They had been working on the case of Georgia Davis all the live-long day, and Angela was just itching for a break. Prime suspect: some crazed farmer dude named Anthony Wood. Every time they took a step closer, they had to take two steps back. It was no help that Booth, Brennan, _and_ Cam were all missing.

As if in tune with Angela's thoughts, Cam strode up the stairs of the platform, swiping her ID card in rhythm with her footing. "Right here," she said.

Angela turned around with a small grin on her face. "Thank God," she muttered inaudibly under her breath. "Zach found something. Have you seen Brennan?"

Cam shook her head no. "What is it Zach?" Cam inquired. Within minutes, she was lost in a whirlwind of explanations paired with indisputable facts.

Angela shook her head. This lab was going to be the death of her. It seemed that even the normal people that dared to venture within the confides of the Jeffersonian came out changed.

Look at Booth! He was once an upstanding, totally ordinary, hot guy that led a squint free life. Then he met the squints, the scientists, the brains of the operation. Angela sighed. He had changed. Booth could probably recite the location and purpose of half the bones in the body by now.

_At least he's still hot,_ Angela thought with a mischievous smile.

"Everything alright, Angela?" Cam asked, clutching a Petri dish containing a carefully cut snippet of flesh.

"Yeah, sure. I'm just worried about Brennan," Angela said, wrinkling her nose at the horrifyingly morbid sight of the bloody lump of fresh skin.

And that much was true. She was always concerned for Brennan's safety, but this was a different kind of worry. She could just feel that something wasn't right. It was after one, and she had been missing since ten this morning.

Booth said something about a case and a pretty banged up little girl. It just wasn't like them to be this long…Booth! Booth was missing, too! Well, at least that was a good sign. Maybe they were having fun…adult fun.

She shook herself free of the thought. _Bren would kill me._

Then Angela's heart skipped a beat, maybe two. She wasn't certain. The alarms sounded, and clusters of blurry, navy blue security guards scampered out of the halls, guns at ready.

Zach's face paled slightly, as if he were nauseas. Hodgins swayed to the side a bit, his blue eyes alert; the flashing lights and bone chilling alarms must have startled him as much, if not more, than they did Angela. Cam seemed to be the most serene, but then again, she always was. Her eyes were colder and more hollow than usual. Though she had no way of knowing, Angela suspected that her own eyes were troubled. She knew that her heart certainly was.

"What's going on?" Zach asked suddenly.

Angela would have rolled her eyes if she weren't as frightened as she was. Only Zach would ask such a logical, reasonable, rational question. It was just…Zach's way. Sometimes it was cute, if not adorable, but other times, it was aggravating, and it was one of those times.

No one answered the question. Instead, the buzzing and chattering of scientists and officials and even some of the idler, lax guards filled the walls of the Jeffersonian.

A security guard that Angela recognized to be Kevin was the first to speak. "May I have your attention, please?" Even his booming voice didn't serve to settle the rising voices. "_May I have your attention, please?_" The lab fell silent almost immediately. "Thank you. Now, the Jeffersonian Medico-Lab is experiencing some security issues. We will be going under lock down, meaning nobody goes in, nobody goes out."

A sigh arose from the fidgety, impatient crowd.

"I assure you that you are in no danger," he continued to say.

But before he could continue, the menacingly loud, piercing sound of a bullet echoed through the Jeffersonian, as if on cue to his last sentence. A shrill shriek rang through the lab, followed by an ominous thud.

Angela would have surely fainted if it hadn't been for Hodgins, standing just two strides away from her. He thrust his arms out under her back, breaking her fall. No, she wasn't shot. She was just in a state of shock.

Her eyes fluttered open and closed in no particular pattern. She wasn't breathing well; she was far too worried to focus on breathing. Breathing was on the bottom of her list of things to do.

_Brennan,_ Angela thought, _she…she's not here. She could be dead. Dead…dead…dead._ The deafening words rang through her head, causing it to throb with pain. _Damn it. Damn it all._

She could just barely make out the muffled screams flying back and forth across the lab.

"Jack, is she alright?" It was Cam.

"Yeah, yeah. She'll be fine."

"Who is she?" That was definitely Zach.

Cam again: "Don't know. I think a guard."

Angela mustered enough strength to crack open her weighted eyelids. Blood…God, there was so much blood, and it was all merely twenty feet away from her. A woman, she was. The gun she once held firmly slipped just inches away from her lifeless hand. Her eyes were still open, and Angela recognized the emotion: sheer, unadulterated panic.

"Is she dead?"

"Yes," the unrecognizable voice said grimly. "She's dead."

As she slowly regained her consciousness, Angela salvaged her ability to make complete sentences again. "Has anyone seen Brennan?" she asked slowly, still testing her new found voice.

It was the time she had tried to ask the question. She knew that she wasn't going to get the answer she wanted, but it felt good to ask. And she needed to feel good.

Hodgins, who was still holding her upright, said, "Not since morning."

It was then that realization sunk in with the squints. Normally, scientists were all for enlightenment. It was what they lived for, what they dedicated their lives to. But it was undeniable that squints were people, too. And people were mostly soft. People have feelings, and the squints were no exception to that. Then and there, the squints were feeling terror. And they hated terror. And they hated the son of a bitch that caused the terror.

Brennan was missing. Booth was missing. The lab was attacked by an armed killer. A woman was shot. And it wasn't all coincidence.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Dun, dun, dun, duuuuuuuuuun!!! 


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** This is going to be the last chapter until this coming Friday on the account of I will be on the family vacation. SO...I'm very sorry, but this will have to suffice until then. My reviewers are great! Keep it up! And come on, lurkers...feel free to drop a quick review! One more thing, this has been edited, but that doesn't mean it's error free. Feel free to correct any and all mistakes.

**Disclaimer:** Bones is only mine in my dreams.

On with the show!

**-CHAPTER 3-**

Brennan succumbed to sleep. Fatigue had a strong hold on her, and she was too drained to fight it. Vulnerability wasn't something that Brennan dealt with well, and much to her disdain, right then, she felt weaker than a day old calf.

In addition to her wounded foot and limp arm, she felt a particularly unpleasant, tingly feeling on the back of her neck. It was the stun gun's doing, no doubt. Booth probably had the same thing.

Fury clouded her last conscious thoughts. That son of a bitch had done it again, and this time, he had pulled the FBI into this mess. It was all so surreal. This time, she may actually die. This time, she may really become the late Dr. Temperance Brennan.

The Gravedigger had obviously learned from his last mistake: he took the car out of the picture. If Brennan weren't near death, she would have thought that move to be rather wise on his part. It provided too many loopholes for the victims. This time, she had no water bottles or cell phones or camera batteries. This time, things were looking pretty god damned bad…

* * *

A gentle arm shook Brennan out of her deep slumber. She didn't want to open her eyes, though. They felt as if they were sealed shut, and she'd be willing to bet that the dirt was serving as a nice substitute to glue. 

"Temperance…Temperance, wake up." The tender voice registered to be Booth's.

She managed to break the layer of debris that fastened her eyes shut. Shifting her pupils around her dismal surroundings, memories flooded back to her in an unpremeditated rush.

"Hello, Booth," she said dully. "How are you doing?"

Booth couldn't help but to flash her his charm smile. "Good, I guess. And you?"

"Fine. How's your leg?" Brennan asked, remembering that he had a cut.

"Healed, mostly. It only hurts a bit," Booth said, his tone giving away his happy-go-lucky façade. Even Brennan could see that his voice was laced with pain.

"Liar," Brennan said playfully. She hoped that a joke would lighten the heavy tension.

Booth didn't respond right away. She heard him fiddling around with his pants, and when the rummaging ceased, he held out a small box.

"What's that?" Brennan asked curiously, trying desperately to ignore the tremor of pain that rang through her left arm.

"A deck of cards," he said as if it were common knowledge that it was, indeed, a deck of cards. "And a flashlight."

Brennan was stupefied, and that didn't happen all that often. _Who carries around a flashlight and a deck of cards?_ she thought to herself.

As if he could read her mind, he added, "I always carry around the flashlight. It's FBI protocol. The cards…well, after we took care of the case, I was planning on heading over to a friend's house. You know, play some cards, maybe some poker."

Even though he couldn't see it in the dark, Brennan shot him a look of disgust. "You're not allowed to gamble, Booth," she said matter-of-factly. "You're already at risk; you shouldn't tempt yourself. It's simply not healthy."

He shot up a hand in feigned innocence. "Save the lecture, Bones. I'm a responsible adult. I think I can handle a few games of poker here and there."

"Don't be too sure of yourself," she shot back. "It's the ones who are in denial that have the most problems."

"I'm not in denial!" Booth said, more loudly than intended.

"Oh right, sorry, my mistake," she retorted with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

He sighed audibly. "Look, let's just focus on finding a way out of here, okay?"

She was abruptly brought back to the reality of things: she and Booth were buried underground. Fighting over Booth's obvious gambling problem wouldn't do any good; they were only wasting their time, and every minute they had was precious.

"Right," she said.

Shifting himself into a presumably more comfortable position, Booth began to speak. "I have these cards, this flashlight, and a mint. The bastard took my gun."

Brennan nodded, though she knew he couldn't see her. The Gravedigger had most definitely gotten smarter. He, or even she, made sure that there'd be no way to escape. At this rate, they were going to die. She shuddered. She didn't want to die. She wasn't ready; there was too much that she hadn't done yet, too many questions about her family unanswered. She couldn't face death without knowing.

Brennan fiddled around in her pockets. She found a crumpled tissue or two, some lipstick, and an old grocery receipt, all of which she was fairly confident would have no use.

"I have tissues, lipstick, and a receipt. You have a mint, playing cards, and a flashlight. There is nothing I can do with that," she said dejectedly.

Suddenly, Booth switched the flashlight on. Brennan squinted whilst her eyes adjusted to the new lighting. The flashlight cast an eerie pool of light around her and Booth, leaving their surroundings in a dim, gray haze. It wasn't much, but at least it was something.

Booth seemed to be in a pretty sorry state himself. His eyes were dark and dreary and hard, a sight that Brennan wasn't accustomed to seeing. His left arm had a horrifyingly deep gash smack dab in the center. She assumed it was rather painful. His gray, skin-tight t-shirt seemed to be torn at the sleeve. Brennan had no idea how he had managed to swing that, considering the awkward position.

As tempting as it was, Brennan didn't dare poke fun at him. She was positive she was no treat to look at either. In fact, she was probably worse off than he was.

"Wanna play?" he asked, gesturing towards the deck of cards sitting between them.

Brennan shot him an incredulous look. Sometimes that man was infuriating! "Are you serious?"

Booth shrugged good-naturedly. "Why not? We've got nothing else to do." He paused and grinned mischievously. "Unless, of course, you had something else in mind…"

Plagued with comprehension of his last remark, she shook her head no. "Cards are fine."

Booth nodded and dealt the deck. "Have you played war before?"

Brennan smiled triumphantly. "Russ taught me when I was younger, maybe eight or nine. I never really saw the purpose of the game, though. It didn't require much skill to win; it was all chance. Still, I played. Funny…I always won somehow. Looking back, I realize that he probably cheated for me. You know, to make me feel like I accomplished something."

Booth grinned as she reminisced. "Then let's play."

Sometime during the game, Brennan seemed to forget that she was buried, running low on oxygen. With Booth, she felt invincible. She knew it was silly, but Booth made her feel secure, and that, she reasoned, was a good thing.

"You know that they're going to have to pay the ransom if we're planning on making it out of this mess, right?" Booth asked while tossing a card in front of them.

Brennan, who had placed down an ace, picked up Booth's card and nodded solemnly. "Yeah, I know."

They only had sixteen hours and fifty two minutes to live.

* * *

Okay, guys, that's all for now...You know what to do! 


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Hi all! I'm back. Finally. I'm tired, too. Like, on the brink of collapsing kind of fatigue. I did, however, manage to post. Woo-hoo! Thank you all for your lovely reviews. Keep 'em coming if that's not too much trouble. Oh, and there are a tad more curse words in this chapter...Nothing too bad, just more than usual.

**Disclaimer:** I just borrow them.

**-CHAPTER 4-**

"Her name was Olivia Black. She was a security guard at the Jeffersonian," Cam said to the group of confused squints huddled around her. "Still no word on who shot her or what connection she may have to the disappearance of Brennan and Booth."

The words had a staggering effect on Angela: it felt like a knife had been thrust into her heart, sending it deeper into the pit of her stomach. After the shooting, Hodgins had managed to coax her into Cam's office, which was by no means an easy feat.

Zach was still stunned. He had barely spoken two words to anyone since the alarms sounded.

"Any family we can contact?" Hodgins suggested.

Cam nodded. "It's being done as we speak."

Angela was trying to digest all that had happened. God, it was so damn fast! One thought followed another, resulting in an unorganized, unmanageable, chaotic mess. Brennan and Booth were gone. Olivia Black, whoever the hell she was, was gone. The son of a bitch that was responsible for this was gone.

Her scattered thoughts were interrupted, however, by the shrill ringing of her cell phone. Angela glanced over at Hodgins, her eyes widened with fear. Time seemed to stop. She didn't really want to know who was calling or what they wanted out of fear it would result in heart-wrenching news. She simply did not want to risk it.

Hodgins smiled slightly and mouthed, "It's okay. Go ahead."

Hands shaking, she reached into the depths of her purse and retrieved the offending phone. Carefully, she flipped it open. Mustering as much confidence as possible, she said, "Hello?" It came out more as a question than a statement.

The sound of a steely, mechanical voice flooded Angela's ears. "Dr. Temperance Brennan and Seeley Booth have been buried alive. Please transfer one million dollars into the account number provided within the next twenty four hours, or they will suffocate to death. You will then be provided with their GPS coordinates. This will be my last communication."

Angela emitted a sound, much like a scream, but not quite. She was about to faint, but when the realization of what was happening struck, she extended an arm and gripped the edge of Cam's desk firmly, skillfully saving herself.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone too dry. All of the scientists in the room cast confused glances at Angela, and Hodgins held her free forearm tightly.

"What is it, Angela?" he persisted. "Come on, spit it out." His genuine concern was covered by the evident tension in his voice.

She swiped a hand though her disheveled hair, trying to regain clear thinking. "Gra…Grav…He's b-back. Grave…digger's…back," she sputtered, trying to catch her breath.

Cam let out a low, angry moan, and Zach was speechless yet again. Hodgins, however, collected his thoughts first and grabbed the phone out of Angela's hand, and he quickly replayed the message. When his eyes became wider and his got face paler, what Angela had claimed was affirmed. The Gravedigger was indeed back.

Cam half skipped and half ran to the back of her desk. Picking up the phone from the hook, she said, "I'm calling the FBI. Zach, go and tell security what's going on. Hodgins, keep Angela from fainting."

Angela went into a dark haze. It was all so surreal. This couldn't be. It just couldn't. _No…No…_ she thought, _…this isn't happening…not again...No…No…_

She could just barely make out Hodgins's frazzled voice. "It's alright, Angela. They'll make it out, I promise. We'll get the ransom, and it'll all be fine. Sshh, it's okay. It's alright."

And then it all went black.

* * *

Angela's eyes fluttered opened and closed a few times before she was fully adjusted to the lighting. It took her another minute or so till she regained her memory of the hell that had happened.

"Really?" That was Hodgins, and he didn't sound too good.

Then there was the ruffling of papers. "Yeah, it's all right here." The voice was laced with heavy tension, and it was that of Cam's.

Angela bolted upright. "What the hell is going on?" Angela demanded, startling both Hodgins and Cam.

Hodgins smiled weakly, and Angela could see that it was a forced smile, not one that came naturally. He walked over to the side of the couch that Angela was sitting on, and he bent down gingerly on his knees at her level.

"It's complicated, Ange," he said softly, taking her hand in his.

Angela was in no mood for the watered down version of what had happened. She was in no mood for any crap for that matter. "What is?"

Hodgins bit his lower lip, probably in an attempt to procrastinate, a job that he was thoroughly butchering. "Brennan and Booth are missing. It was the Gravedigger, and we have a relatively good idea of what's going on, too." The words came out harshly, more harshly than intended.

A surge of terror shot through Angela, who was already in a fragile state as it was. "What do you know?" she asked, trying to keep her composure.

Cam cleared her throat as if to ask permission. "Security sent us these videos." She gestured to some empty boxes on her desk. "We…have it all here."

Angela was confused. "What do you mean by 'we have it all here,' exactly?" Ignoring Hodgins's weak whines of protest, she rose to her feet and took to pacing the office.

"The tapes in the parking garage caught it all. From what we gather, what went down wasn't too pretty," Cam said slowly and somewhat cautiously once she caught Hodgins glaring at her.

Hodgins reached out to Angela and caught her by the forearm. "Angela, before we get ahead of our—"

"No!" she protested, retracting her arm. "I want…" she paused to swallow, "…I want to know. I have the right to know."

Cam nodded solemnly. "Are you sure?"

"I know what I want! I'm not a child! I can handle this. I did it once, and I'll do it again, damn it!" Angela yelled, her voice carrying not only to the office, but to the lab, as well.

Hodgins brought her to a chair in front of a flat panel computer screen. Angela shut her eyes tightly in anticipation. Looking for a distraction, she listened intently to the gentle tip tapping of computer keys and the racket of a video being shoved into the VCR.

She didn't even open her eyes when she heard Hodgins. "It's ready, Angela."

* * *

**A/N #2:** I hope I did okay with the call with from the Gravedigger. I even consulted the episode so as to avoid any glitches.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** A word of advice to all fan fiction authors: never attempt to juggle two stories at one time. I made that unfortunate mistake (sometimes my warped imagination gets the best of me), and now I find myself struggling to keep the two plots separated. It's terribly confusing. Oh, and not to mention the fact that there's double the writing...Regardless of my personality flaws, here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy it--it's pure fluff:o) And the B&B interaction will only proceed to develop in the chapters to come. What kind of fan fiction writer would I be if I didn't do that?

**Disclaimer:** It's all FOX's. Drats!

**-CHAPTER 5-**

"Got anything else to do?" Brennan asked, flicking the switch of the flashlight on and off out of sheer boredom.

"No," he said. After a few more tension filled moments, he added, "Will you lay off the flashlight? You're going to kill the battery, and it'll be your fault that we're out of light."

Brennan rolled her eyes, but she complied and immediately quit fiddling with the switch. She had never found a plastic knob to be so fascinating. Maybe it was because it was forbidden, or maybe it was simply because it was just something to kill the boredom. Either way, she had a burning sensation to start playing with the thing again.

She knew that she was supposed to be afraid. She knew that she was supposed to be thinking about all of the possible ways she was going to be found like this—dead, in this death trap, with Booth. She knew that she was supposed to be in a state of panic, with tracks of tears tumbling from her eyelids. Yet was she was eerily composed. Half of her knew why she was so calm, but the other rational, more powerful half, refused admit the answer to herself.

"Hey, I got an idea, Bones."

Brennan looked up from the flashlight that she was previously captivated by and smiled slightly. "Oh yeah, what's that?" she said in good humor.

"Have you ever had a breath-holding contest before, Bones?" he asked, the beginnings of a charm smile threatening to curl his lips.

Brennan nodded. "Russ and I liked to go to the local pool on weekends. We'd see who could say under the water the longest." She didn't bother to add the fact that Russ had abnormally good breath-holding skills, and that she had been beat practically every time.

"Wanna have one now?" he asked. "It'd conserve air, I think."

Brennan couldn't help but to grin back at his child-like eagerness. Why not? They had nothing else to do, and what could it possibly hurt? "Sure, Booth."

"Okay, on the count of three, plug your nose and puff your cheeks out. First one to breath loses. Deal?" He extended his hand to shake on it.

Brennan smirked impishly and accepted his gesture. "Deal," she said matter-of-factly.

"One…two…three!" he shouted.

As the two sucked in their final breaths, Brennan tried to conceal a laugh. What seemed like an easy feat was proving to be more difficult as the seconds progressed. Booth looked unbelievably ridiculous. A muscular, brawny, tough-as-nails FBI agent was sitting before her with chipmunk cheeks. The tips of them had turned slightly pinkish, and Brennan couldn't decide whether that was a result of embarrassment or lack of oxygen.

Brennan couldn't take it anymore. She opened her mouth in a haze, gasping for a breath, feeling the twinge of disappointment and embarrassment spread. As the speed of her breaths increased, she had the sudden urge to laugh, especially when she saw Booth smiling.

"I…won!" he managed through his scattered breaths.

"Only…by…a…few…seconds!" she shot back, just as breathless as Booth, if not more.

"Still...I won…you owe me."

Her normal breathing patterns had resumed, and now she was sitting with her hands on her hips. "Do…not! That was never part of the deal."

Booth just shrugged and smiled irresistibly. "So what? When we get out of here, you owe me dinner."

Suddenly, Brennan frowned. "If we ever get out of here," she said in a low whisper.

The fun of the moment had been killed with the truth. It was a topic that they had clearly been avoiding, and for good reasons, too. They had nothing. Absolutely nothing. The only hope they had was the ransom, and they had no way of knowing whether or not the Gravedigger had contacted the squints or not.

"Geesh, Bones, way to rain on the parade," Booth said, trying to make light of the compromising situation.

Brennan cast him a funny look. Her eyebrows were knitted together with confusion as they always were when she was in deep thought. "Huh? There isn't any rain…what parade?"

"Expression, Bones. Expression."

"What does it mean?" Brennan asked, still obviously confused.

Booth smiled. "I guess it's used when someone says something to ruin a happy moment, like just then, for example," he explained somewhat cheerfully.

"Oh…I guess I rain on the parade a lot then, huh?" she said disappointedly.

Booth extended his arm and shook her shoulder playfully. Brennan both chose to ignore the jolts of electricity that were triggered at such small contact.

"Hey, it's not your fault," he said. "Everyone knows you don't mean to."

Brennan lifted her downcast eyes slightly and smiled weakly. "I guess so."

There were a few more moments of awkward silence. Brennan didn't want to speak. She was afraid to. What if she said something stupid, like she just did? The silence gave the opportunity for her to further examine the situation. Maybe she wasn't going to make it through this time. What if this actually was their grave? What if this was how they were going to find her?

"What are you thinking so hard about?" Booth asked, breaking the silence that was growing to be more uncomfortable by the second.

Brennan, being the blunt woman that she was, answered the question truthfully. "Just about how I may die here…with you."

"Hey," Booth said, trying to smile, "don't talk like that. We aren't going to die. Not here, not now, not ever. We're going to be fine."

"Everyone has to die at one point. It's inevitable. And since when do you have physic powers, Booth?"

He shot her the charm smile again, nearly making her melt. "I never said I did. But I do know this. I know that we've got the squints back at the lab on our side. I know that they're not going to let this happen to us. I know that they wouldn't let you die."

"How do you know?" Brennan persisted.

"You're a stubborn one, you know that?" He shook his head good-naturedly. "I just do, okay? Call it a gut feeling. They wouldn't let this happen."

Then more silence filled the walls of their prison. She chose to ignore the "gut feeling" comment.

Then a new thought struck Brennan. "Hey, Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are you so mean to Zach? He looks up to you, you know. You really should try to be nicer to him."

Booth laughed. It was a genuine laugh, too. Even Brennan knew that much.

"Because," he said, "it's more fun to be mean than to be nice. The kid knows that I mean well."

Brennan shook her head no. "You give him too much credit, Booth. You know that all of squints, Zach especially, have a difficult time understanding things that haven't been proven. He's scared of you."

Booth smiled crookedly, with one side of his lips curled upwards and the other downwards. "Then let's keep it that way."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** This chapter was especially difficult to write simply because I'm not Hart Hanson. Trust me, if I were, B&B would have totally done something about all of that pent up sexual tension by now...Sorry, I didn't mean to digress. What I'm trying to say is that I have no way of knowing what the Gravedigger looks like. This is simply my perception of him. I know that there are spoilers floating around pertaining to the identity of the Gravedigger, but let's just disregard those for the story's sake, m'kay? Oh, and thank you, my lovely reviewers! You're great.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine...I already told you I'm not Hart Hanson. Geesh, do you have to remind me?

**-CHAPTER 6-**

A man disguised in a coarse, makeshift mask kept his back pressed firmly against the concrete blocks of the walls in the parking garage. His outfit consisted of old, tattered black cloth: a t-shirt two sizes too large, well-warn sweatpants, filthy hiking boots, and gloves with several holes. A knapsack that was slung carelessly on his shoulder threatened to fall.

The man slowly inched further down the wall, all the while his back glued to the walls. His pace wasn't faster than a snail's; he was obviously well trained for the life of a criminal.

Angela couldn't take it anymore. She grabbed the remote and hastily pressed her thumb to the stop button. Her breathing quickened, and she felt hollow inside. This was all so real. Sure, it was real the last time they had dealt with the bastard, but here he was, face to face with Angela. She couldn't deal with it. Not again.

"Look, Angela, if it's too much for you—"

Angela cut Hodgins off abruptly when she locked her eyes with his own. "I just need a break," she countered evenly. She fluttered her eyes shut. "Are you arranging ransom?"

Her eyes were still closed when Cam answered, "Yes. The FBI is already working on it."

Angela nodded and cautiously coaxed her eyes open to search for the play button on the remote. With her shaky thumb, she pushed it down, signaling the television to continue with the tape.

The Gravedigger came into view again, along with Brennan and Booth. Heels echoed against the stone floors, and soon did the bickering voices of Brennan and Booth.

"Do you have the paperwork?" That was Brennan.

"No, it must have slipped my mind…Of course I have it!" The manliness of the voice and twinge of sarcasm revealed the voice to be Booth's.

"Remember last time? We got to your apartment, we had the take-out all set out, and when you go to get the files from the bag, you decided that it was time to point out that the whole file was locked up in your office file cabinet."

"That was different…I thought I put it in—"

Suddenly, the masked man came upon Booth and jabbed a stun gun to his neck, immediately rendering him unconscious before he had the chance to attempt to fight back. Angela watched in horror as Brennan sprung into action once she realized what was going on. She attempted to take the son of a bitch down with merely her bare hands. The shiver that ran down Angela's spine served as a gentle reminder of what was to come.

Despite her efforts, Brennan was no match for his stun gun. With a forceful thrust, the man stabbed the gun into the back of her neck, leaving Brennan an unconscious lump beside Booth.

Angela fought back the urge to cry. _Brennan would want me to say strong. She wouldn't want me to be crying. She'd want me to be strong. Oh…screw it!_ Angela relented and emitted a small groan, followed by several salty tears.

Hodgins placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Angela appreciated the small gesture, but it didn't solace her. She knew that she could only rest once she saw both Brennan and Booth…alive.

Rather reluctantly, Angela continued to watch the screen. The Gravedigger proceeded to struggle as he dragged Booth by the shoulders to a silver Jeep. Clumsily, the man threw the door open and lifted Booth in the back. He took care to sit Booth upward and fasten the seatbelt. Once he was certain that Booth was buckled and inside, the Gravedigger slammed the door shut and made his way around to Brennan.

This time, there was no need to drag. Brennan made for a light load. Lifting her in his arms, he strapped her in aside Booth.

The tears were now streaming uncontrollably down Angela's face, and no amount of consoling would calm Angela. She was, after all, witnessing the kidnapping of her closest friend. This could very well be the last she ever saw of Brennan. The thought triggered a fresh set of tears to tumble down from her eyes.

The Gravedigger quickly sat himself down in the driver's seat of the Jeep. The car started with a rumble, and soon he was speeding out of the lot, consequently out of sight.

"That bastard!" Angela yelled furiously. "That bastard got away with it again!"

"Shh, we know, Ange. We know. We're going to get him," Hodgins cooed softly. "We're going to catch him this time. We will."

"You don't know that!" Angela retorted harshly. "You can't guarantee that! That bastard!"

Angela was shaking with sobs. She could scarcely make out the words passed between Cam and Hodgins.

"Did you get the license plate number on the jeep?" That was Cam.

"OH662." [**A/N #2:** If this license plate number belongs to you or someone you know, understand that it was randomly chosen. It was created solely for the sake of the story. I didn't mean to alarm you.

Then there was the soft tapping of fingers against keys.

Cam again: "Is she going to be okay?"

The room was filled with silence, save the gentle sobs belonging to Angela.

After another minute or so, Hodgins replied weakly, "I don't know, Dr. Saroyan. I just don't know."

After another few minutes of awkward silence, Cam practically yelled, "I think I've got it. The vehicle is registered to a blue '06 Toyota Camry belonging to Mrs. Deborah Ross." She sighed upon realizing what this meant. "The plates must have stolen."

"It still means we're going somewhere. Get a hold of the FBI and have them contact Mrs. Ross. Maybe she has some connection with this son of a bitch," Hodgins suggested.

"Already on it." Cam stopped to dial the numbers on the phone. "Hi, yeah, we've got an update. Do a background check on a Deborah Ross…"

Angela heard the quite, subtle footsteps of Hodgins. She felt his hand slowly close over hers. "Hey…It's alright. Everything will fall into place. We're not going to let them die, okay?"

Angela looked up at him with her swollen, red, puffy eyes. She could feel the stickiness of the mascara running down her cheeks. Her shirt was damp with some of the tears that had dropped below her face. She was sure she was a mess.

"How do you know?" she asked evenly, trying to keep herself together.

"I just do," Hodgins said soothingly. "Look, I should bring you back to my place for some rest—"

"No!" Angela cut him off quickly. "I can't rest until I know that they're safe. You of all people should understand that."

Angela noticed the slightest flicker of memory pass through his eyes.

"Alright. We'll catch this bastard…together."

Cam interrupted their heart-to-heart with some startling news. "The FBI is on their way to apprehend Mrs. Ross for questioning. She may know something about our killer. Do you guys want to come with me?"

"Go with you where?" Hodgins asked, slightly confused.

"To the interrogation room," Cam said matter-of-factly.

Angela piped up next. "But why? Booth would kill us if he knew you even let us step near that place."

Cam grinned. "Ah, well…what he doesn't know can't hurt him, right?"

Angela couldn't help but to smile. Taking Hodgins's hand in her own, she made her way out of the office behind Cam. Suddenly, she remembered something.

"What about Zach?" she asked, pointing with her free hand over at the platform where he stood hunched over something.

"Yeah," Hodgins said, "what about him? Can we leave him in the lab all by himself?"

Cam seemed to consider his point. "Zach!"

"What is it, Dr. Saroyan?" he called from the platform.

"We're going out for a little while. Do you want to come with us to the interrogation room?" Cam asked gently.

Angela had to suppress a small giggle. It was funny; it was almost like asking a kid if he wanted to go to the candy store.

"Uh…am I allowed?" Zach inquired, already making his way towards the platform steps.

"Sure you are, buddy," Hodgins said quickly.

Angela could tell by his tone that he was getting anxious. That was when it hit her. Hodgins had faced it all, too. He was actually underground, buried, nearly facing suffocation. He had seen first-hand what the Gravedigger was capable of doing to people. It was different now…he was above ground dealing with the stress. But Angela was certain that the memories of being down there still haunted him. She should have realized this from the start, but she was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice.

Angela squeezed Hodgins's hand in an effort to make him feel better.

"Just let me get my coat," Zach said excitedly. And with that, he rushed to meet the rest of the squint squad.

* * *

See that blueish little button right there? Click on it! Click on it! (If you like, I mean. I don't want to come off as pushy...) 


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Okay, this is the next chapter. It's quite lengthy in comparison to previous chapters. And there's fluff! Woo-hoo for fluff! Oh, and as a side note, I composed a cute one-shot/song fic called _Sully's Girl_...It's definitely worth checking out! ;-)

**Disclaimer:** Bones is not mine!

**-CHAPTER 7-**

"I'm hungry."

Brennan looked up from the filthy floor and frowned at the FBI agent. "I'm sorry. Do you want me to pick up something from McDonald's for you? A cheeseburger or fries, perhaps?" she asked sarcastically.

"Ha, ha…Very funny," Booth said half-heartedly.

Looking for a distraction, he swirled his thumb across the floor of grimy dirt. He mumbled a few incoherent fragments under his breath every so often, which were accompanied by the scratchy noises of his fingernails against the hard, pebbly surface. After a few more minutes of silence, a design that resembled a bent ladder was etched to the concrete.

Brennan held the flashlight over his picture. "What's that supposed to be?"

He brushed one hand against the other to swipe off the remaining dirt. The clapping echoed off the concrete walls. He grinned as he admired his handiwork. "A snake," he said matter-of-factly.

Brennan stared at the so-called "snake" blankly for a moment. She had seen many snakes in her lifetime. Snakes had long, curvy bodies and were considerably thick. Snakes had rounded heads and beady eyes and scaly skin. Snakes were slender and flow-y. It didn't take a forensic anthropologist to figure out that what Booth had drawn was no snake.

"That is _not_ a snake," Brennan said in genuine disbelief.

"Sure it is, Bones," Booth insisted. To prove his point, he gestured to largest of the wavy strokes and traced an invisible line over it with his finger. "This is the tail, and that…" he paused to make an imaginary circle over a rather large, deformed oval near the top of the longest curve, "…is the snake's head."

"That is not a snake," Brennan repeated, this time with more confidence.

Booth sighed louder than necessary. "Okay then, Ms. Smarty Pants. What, pray tell, do you think it looks like?"

Choosing to ignore the "smarty pants," comment, she said, "It's a ladder." She proceeded to point to the disarray of circles Booth had drawn in between two of the thickest lines. "Those are the prongs and—"

Booth cut her off abruptly. "No, those are the scales."

"Those are _not_ scales."

"Sure they are."

"They look more like the prongs of a ladder," she argued reasonably.

Booth groaned at the prospect of yet another argument on the horizon. "Look, you're an anthropologist, right?"

"Of course," Brennan said, slightly taken aback by his question.

"And an anthropologist is supposed to observe different cultures, right?"

"Yes."

"And an anthropologist's job is to observe one's culture without imposing or disrupting it in any way, right?"

Brennan still had no clue as to where he was going with this, but she decided it was best to go along with his antics for the time being. "Right again," she said, her voice laced with genuine confusion.

"So can't you just look at this like an anthropologist would?" At Brennan's look of bewilderment, he elaborated on his comment. "Look, Bones, just accept the fact that this is a drawing of a snake, not a drawing of this ladder you speak of. Ignore the lousy art job and accept it. As an anthropologist, you're not supposed to judge. So don't judge. Just accept."

Try as she might, Brennan couldn't wipe the growing smirk off her face. Booth had beaten her at her own game, something that she wasn't accustomed to. She'd have to keep that in mind and find a way to even the score.

Crossing her arms under her breasts, Brennan retorted, "Don't use my own words against me. And besides, I fail to see what this has to do with anthropology, Booth. I was simply stating my opinion. That does not resemble a snake. I see it as a ladder—a bent, distorted ladder, but a ladder nonetheless."

Booth grinned. "Well, if you're such a critic, why don't you put you're money where your mouth is," he challenged.

"I don't have any money with me. Besides, even if I did, do you have any idea how many pathogenic bacteria are passed through the trading of money? Money is a health hazard as it is. Why would I want to put it in my mouth?" she asked innocently.

_What does money have to do with any of this?_ she added in her thoughts.

"Expression, Bones," Booth corrected gently.

Brennan blushed involuntarily at his comment. "Oh, right," she said quietly.

"Hey," Booth said, reaching out to stroke her smooth hand with his own. "It's not a big deal."

Brennan managed to put on a friendly smile. It was amazing that a simple touch from him had such an effect on her. "Yeah. After all, it is _just you_." She emphasized the words "just you." Brennan saw it as a subtle of way of telling Booth that she was comfortable with him.

Booth pretended to take offence to her comment. "Just me? Aw, c'mon, Bones. You know I'm worth more than a lousy 'just me,'" he cajoled.

Brennan's smiled widened. "That you are." When the meaning of her words registered with her, a wave of crimson graced her features once more, and she retracted her hand from his.

The awkwardness of the moment brought on a bout of unwelcome silence. Brennan kept her eyes downcast. She didn't dare meet Booth's eyes out of fear of what she would see there.

Booth had taught her a lot of things, probably one of the most important being the skill of reading people. That wasn't to say that Brennan was a pro at it like Booth was, but she was definitely making progress. She knew better than to be as blunt with the victims' families. She had even learned how to decode certain expressions and sarcastic remarks. And after working with Booth for awhile, she had learned how to read his feelings, his expressions, his snide comments. She even knew enough to recognize the lust hidden in those chocolate eyes of his.

"Ready to put your money where your mouth is, Bones?" Booth asked suddenly.

Brennan welcomed the question with a bright smile. She decided that she didn't like the direction her thoughts were taking. "As soon as you explain the meaning," she stated simply.

"Alright-y then. You talk like you know your stuff, Bones. You bash my snake, claiming it to be a ladder, but what do you really know about art?" The bemused expression plastered to Brennan's face was priceless. "Draw something, anything, and I'll try to guess what it is, m'kay?"

A shiver ran down her spine upon realizing what the challenge would entail. "You want me to draw?" she asked slowly, making sure that she understood what was expected of her.

"Go right ahead, Doc," Booth confirmed with his signature charm smile.

Brennan let out a nervous chuckle. Unbeknownst to Booth, Brennan could barely draw a stick figure. She was a scientist, not an artist. Angela was the one who helped her decorate her office with pointless tapestries and sofas. Angela was the one who picked out the paints for her apartment walls. Heck, Angela was even the one who chose the majority of Brennan's wardrobe. Ange was the artsy one. Brennan was the brainy one. That was just the way things were.

_Damn him!_ she cursed mentally. _Why do I open my big mouth?_ An annoying voice in the back of her head answered, _Because you like to flirt with your so-called, "partner." _She chose to ignore her conscience, convinced that she had been talking with Angela way too much lately.

Brennan frowned as she searched for something simple enough to sketch on the ground. She momentarily flicked her eyes upward to steal a glance at Booth. A smug smile graced his lips, and his hands crossed over his chest challengingly. Determined to beat him, she set to work with her drawing.

Brushing her thumb against the dirt on the floor, she formed a few random lines. These random lines soon pieced together to resemble seven, carefully placed bunches of dots. After a few final adjustments, Brennan emitted a tiny grunt of satisfaction and swiped her hands against her pant legs.

"There," she said happily. "What does it look like to you?"

Booth tried to stifle a laugh, but much to his dismay, he ended up snorting loudly. "What…is that? And you call my snake a ladder? I can't even guess what that thing is."

Brennan scoffed at his insult. "I'll have you know that this is the Big Dipper."

"The Big Dipper, Bones? Looks more like a kid that forgot to use his acne cream," Booth rebutted.

Sighing, Brennan gestured to the dot farthest to the left. She slowly snaked her finger down the strand of stars, naming each as she went along. "Those are Dubhe and Merak. That right there is called Phecda. That's Megrez. Next to that is Alioth. Then there's Mizar…and lastly Alkaid."

Moving her finger back to the first two stars, she continued, "Dubhe and Merak are called pointers. They can be used as indicators of Polaris, commonly known as the North Star. If you draw an imaginary line between the length of Dubhe and Merak and then extend that five times, you can easily find the North Star."

Booth raised his brows good-naturedly. "I didn't ask for an astrology lesson, Bones," he challenged playfully.

Brennan, however, didn't interpret his comment to be playful. Once again, she felt the color rising in her cheeks. "Oh, right," she muttered uneasily. "I knew that."

Detecting her obvious discomfort, Booth spoke, "Don't worry 'bout it, Bones." But when the color still didn't disappear, he added quickly, "It's kinda cute."

Brennan smirked. "Cute, eh?"

Trying to conceal his own embarrassment, he played along. "Yeah, cute."

Booth knew that if anything further was added to this discussion, he'd be in big trouble. He wisely decided to change the subject to something much safer. "I don't think we'll be getting any big awards with our second-rate artwork any time soon."

Much to his relief, Brennan laughed lightly. "You're right." She paused, and a daring look crept across her features. "But you have to admit it…my drawing beat the hell out of yours."

He shook his head while wagging a finger in her face. "No way! At least mine resembles a snake. Yours…well…it doesn't even come close."

Brennan sneered. "So you admit it!"

"Admit what?"

"You said that your drawing _resembles_ a snake, therefore implying that it doesn't _look_ like a snake," she jeered confidently.

"That's not what I said and you know it. Anybody who sees that…thing," he paused to gesture towards Brennan's attempt at the Big Dipper, "wouldn't have any clue what it was."

Brennan placed her hands firmly on her hips. "Is that so?"

"Yes." He mimicked Brennan by putting his own hands on his hips. With a devious expression plastered to his face, he mocked Brennan's voice to the best of his ability. "It is so!"

Brennan couldn't help but to giggle somewhat uncharacteristically at his attempts to mimic her current stance. _If only Angela could see him now,_ she thought wistfully. Once she managed to control her laughter, she met Booth's daunting glare.

"What's so funny?" Booth asked sternly, his smiling eyes betraying his harsh tone.

"You," Brennan panted.

The sat there in silence for a minute or two, their eyes locked together, neither of them willing to break the intense gaze.

"Hey, Bones?" Booth asked, his voice slightly shaky.

Brennan nodded for him to continue.

"When we get out of here, how's about seeing some real art?" he asked casually.

Eyeing him suspiciously, Brennan asked, "What do you mean by 'real art?'" She punctuated the words "real art," with air quotes, a trick she had learned from Angela.

"Ever been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art?" Booth asked.

Brennan nodded. "When I was in college, my professor, a few others, and I took a trip down to the city. I wasn't up for the whole 'shop-around-and-buy-useless-junk-from-street-vendors,' thing, so I took a cab over to the museum. It was phenomenal. I left with a newfound appreciation for the arts," she explained.

Booth nodded and smiled softly at her enthusiasm. "You can take me down and give me a tour, then. It'll be a daytrip, just you and me."

Brennan raised her eyebrows suspiciously. "Are you sure you want me to give you a tour? I covered every square-inch of that museum, Booth." She frowned. "You might get bored."

Booth waved his hand to shake off any of her fears. "Nah, you could never bore me. I'll even let you correct any of the mistakes that those sign thingies make."

Her eyes brightened visibly at the prospect. "Really?"

Booth nodded his head. "Really."

Brennan realized sometime later that for the past twenty minutes or so, she had been totally oblivious to their situation. She had chosen to ignore the mind numbing fear. She had chosen to ignore that their chances of living were slowly dwindling to nothing. She had chosen to ignore the fact that the Gravedigger was out on the prowl once more, snatching innocent people's live without warning. For the moment, she was happy. Genuinely happy. Her queasy stomach reminded her that a certain FBI agent was behind it all.

* * *

**_Now, I believe this is the time when you drop a review...Thank you, my wonderful readers:o)_**

-Susan


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** This chapter is purely casework. But hey, if we're gonna get them outta there, isn't that sort of thing necessary? Oh, and it may do you well to quickly review Chapter 6 before reading this bit, just to refresh your memory. Thank you for all of your wonderful reviews...And to all of you lurkers (yes, I know you're out there; hiding is futile), REVIEW! Whoops, where are my manners? I forgot to say please...

**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine, so don't sue. I just like to play with them.

**_-CHAPTER 8-_**

"May I please have permission to kill Zach? _Please?_" Hodgins whined from the back seat.

Angela nudged Hodgins forcefully with her elbow and scowled disapprovingly. She had been listening to him and Zach bicker the whole car ride—needless to say, she was ready to bash their heads together and toss both of their sorry asses to the curb. The nasty migraine that had developed was as equally stubborn as it was persistent; the pain just couldn't be stopped. Enduring the aching was almost as bad as the lingering panic that tightened her stomach—_almost_.

"Hey—Ouch! What was that for?" Hodgins rubbed the sore spot and winced.

"Did it ever occur to your oversized brain that you aren't the only person who exists? Shut up and behave," she retorted.

Zach piped up next. "I once watched this fascinating documentary that focused on the basic principles of criminal psychology. According to its findings, one must be pushy yet patient in the interrogation room. I can't multitask, Angela. Would you rather I just sat there and had as little interaction with the suspect as possible? Or should I address the sus—"

"Oh, for pity's sake, Zach! Cam, please feel free to intervene!" Angela pressed her cool fingers to her burning forehead, trying desperately to block out the noise.

Then Cam's voice echoed through the car, silencing all of the passengers at once. "Enough, people! We've got bigger fish to fry." At the confused look cast from Zach, she shook her head ruefully and took a sharp left. "Never mind that. Just…Try and focus on the bigger problems, okay? Zach, you'll be a silent observer, just like the rest of us. Hodgins, no killing Zach. Angela, take an Advil. No one said this was going to be easy, people. Get it together."

Angela sighed. This was definitely going to be the longest case ever.

* * *

"Mrs. Deborah Ross?" 

Angela bit at her nails nervously, her eyes fixated to the interrogation room. She hummed under her breath, trying to calm her nerves. Pacing the room only earned a disagreeable glare from the security guard stationed in the room with them.

"Yes," the woman said shyly. A slight smile graced her lips. "Um…Do I need a lawyer? My husband—he can contact our attorney if need be."

Angela frowned. Mrs. Ross seemed utterly harmless, if not a bit clueless. Of course, she knew that looks could be deceiving, but it was obvious that this woman hadn't even killed a fly. Her honey colored hair was wound into a loose bun; a few frizzy tendrils escaped and rested on her neck. Her brown eyes seemed clouded and troubled. Even her outfit was modest enough: a simple green summer dress with a frayed hem.

"It's too early to determine, Ma'am," Agent Burrows said abruptly. Angela watched as Burrows flipped through a file, his glasses resting dangerously low on the tip of his nose. "Now, Mrs. Ross, we're currently conducting a missing persons case."

She nodded in agreement. "I was briefed of the situation prior to the interrogation."

"Well then, we'll proceed." Burrows offered Mrs. Ross a seat at the table before pulling out the chair parallel to the fretting woman. "When did you first realize your license plates were first missing, Mrs. Ross?"

"A week ago. I contacted the police and explained the situation." She nodded in confirmation.

"Initially, you told the authorities that you didn't have any suspects in mind. Am I to understand that this still rings true?"

Then silence. Mrs. Ross fidgeted uncomfortably in her chair. After tucking a nonexistent lock of hair behind her ear, she whispered, "Well—" She stopped abruptly and sighed, coyly averting her eyes from the FBI agent's.

"Mrs. Ross?"

"My neighbor…" She trailed off again.

"Mrs. Ross? Is it going to be necessary for us to contact that lawyer of yours?"

Angela pitied the poor woman; she was clearly scared out of her wits. As she awaited the woman's answer, she let her glance find her colleagues. Zach appeared to be taking notes in a red binder thingy, his eyes forever dodging from the suspect and then back again to his paper. Cam had her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Hodgins was fully alert; his gaze was impenetrable and hard. Angela, being wrought with worry herself, imagined that she was a sight. She had spent the day crying; her eyes must have been bloodshot and tired.

"No, sir. That won't be necessary. I'm willing to cooperate." With a hesitant sigh, she continued, "My neighbor, Lawrence Philips…He's—interesting—to say the least. When I contacted the police, he was out of town, so he hadn't crossed my mind. Besides, they were just plates. It wasn't as if I couldn't get new ones."

She waited for Burrows to jot down the information before continuing. "He got home a few nights ago. I remember the time…one fifteen in the morning. The music was blaring that obnoxious heavy metal that teens seem so fond of these days. It probably woke up half the neighborhood, my husband and I included." She laughed wryly. "The next morning, when I went out to get the newspaper, I noticed that his car was gone again. He had left his shed door open, though. A mess of rusty metal gathered around the entrance, and at a closer look, I could see that the whole shed was filled with the more scraps."

Burrows nodded. "This car…Can you describe it?"

"An old, rusty, red Chevy. There's a big dent in the side of it, too. He's always got some junk piled up in the back." Mrs. Ross pursed her lips together, blending the thick lipstick smeared to her thin lips.

Angela sighed. That didn't match the description of the pick-up truck that hauled off Brennan and Booth. _Back to square one, _Angela thought. _Well…there's still this Lawrence Philips to interrogate. _She grimaced. _Yeah, because high school dropouts who slink around are so helpful…_

"Is there anything else you can tell us about this Philips?" Burrows asked.

"He's always been suspicious. You know, the type that lurks around after hours, just waiting to raise havoc. I've never had any direct encounters with him. My friend, Cheryl Douglas, has though. Said he was a rough one. Rough and rude." A bemused expression pained Mrs. Ross's face. "I'm afraid that's all I know."

"Thank you, Mrs. Ross. If we have any further questions, we'll be in touch. Don't hesitate to call if you have anymore information that could be of use."

Burrows handed the frightened woman his card, and with a curt nod, she was escorted from the interrogation room by a security guard. Before leaving the room himself, Burrows smiled sympathetically at the squint squad. A flicker of understanding flashed in his eyes. Angela could only smile weakly in return to the gesture.

Then she turned to her colleagues. This was agonizing. She hated the not knowing. She hated having to wait for answers. She hated all of this!

"What are going to do?" she whimpered, mainly to herself than any of the squints.

Cam found her voice first. "We'll go back to the lab and let the FBI apprehend Lawrence Philips. I'll run his name through the database. Maybe we'll get lucky." When silence greeted the response, she urged the less than enthusiastic group onward. "Come on, people! We can't get discouraged. This is Brennan and Booth we're talking about. We're going to find them. I promise."

As Angela shuffled her way back to the car, she couldn't help but to think, _But what good are empty promises?_

* * *

**_Oh, the suspense! Don't forget to review!_**

**_-Susan :o)_**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Now, I am going to warn you right now: there **_is_** angst. Lots and lots of angst. So, you've been warned. On a happier note, here's the next chapter!!! Enjoy, my loverly readers, enjoy. And a special thanks to all of my reviewers...You guys rock! Really!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, so please suppress the urge to sue.

**_-CHAPTER 9-_**

Brennan was a strong, stubborn woman. She never faltered in her noble conquest to seek out the truth. She never accepted defeat or failure. She never backed down from a fight. She was unwavering in her beliefs, whether they pertained to a case or to God. She relied upon facts, logic, and rationale. And the facts were indisputable: she and Booth were buried and dying. Their time was nearing its end.

Brennan tried to ignore her constricted chest. It was a horrible feeling; like someone had taken a rubber band and wrapped it around her ten times too many. Every breath was a struggle. Her voice was chocked and crackly and pained. Her head was light; it took every last ounce of energy just to keep it upright. Blotchy, black spots dotted her vision, almost as through a bottle of ink had been splattered on her eyes.

She wanted to cry out in despair, to run, to plea for her life…something, _anything_. But it was futile. There was nothing she could do. Not now, not ever. Maybe this was one of those fights she was destined to lose.

No. She wouldn't accept death. True, death was a stubborn, relentless one, but Brennan could be just as stubborn and relentless. It was time to fight fire with fire. There was too much to lose.

Brennan had a family now. Her squints. Her life. The life she had built despite the hardships she had faced as a child. Angela would never forgive herself. The poor woman would be guilt ridden for the rest of her life. And Zach…Brennan couldn't stand leaving him alone at the Jeffersonian. How would be able to give orders? Brennan had no doubts of his abilities. It was confidence that he lacked. He was still learning. He needed her. And Hodgins? He wouldn't be able to stomach all of this again. Not again. Especially after seeing the toll this would take on Angela.

The lab would fall apart. Death simply wasn't an option.

The temperature had reached a stifling climax. Sweat trickled down her neck and forehead, leaving streaks of dampness on her clothes and in her hair. The heat had flooded her insides. Her hands trembled. Her head pounded, begging for ice. Her throat was scratchy and dry, in desperate need of replenishment. It pleaded for water.

"How you holding up?"

Brennan opened her eyes without really seeing. Booth was merely a blur. A dying, withered blur. But she was determined not to cry. She was going to stay strong and pull through this. She was going to live. She had to live. For the squints. For her family. For Booth.

"Fine," she lied, hoping that Booth would buy it, but knowing that her attempts at lying would fall flat. Even minutes before death, Booth could read her. Brennan was confident in knowing that Booth would always be able to read her. Always.

"Fine?" His voice was hesitant, and even though it was masked with sheer terror and blatant helplessness, Brennan could have sworn that she heard his usual lightheartedness and humor, even if it was ever so slight.

"Yes. Fine," she wheezed.

A long pause followed, an emphasis on their dire situation.

"Hey, Bones?"

"What is it, Booth?"

"Do you trust me?"

Brennan tried to no avail to ignore the rush of panic that pumped through her at his words. "Of course," she said weakly, trying to inhale but failing to do so.

"Bones? If we—" he paused to draw in a straggled breath, "—don't make it, I want you to know that I'm sorry."

Brennan emitted a tiny, pained sob. She had never seen Booth like this. So vulnerable, so frail. They were both in a state of absolute desperation. "No, Booth. Don't be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong. Don't…" She trailed off and hastily swiped a tear off her cheek. "…Don't blame yourself."

"It's my fault. I should have…I-I should have caught that bastard. Now…Now I'm going to die. He caught you. I failed you. I failed you, Bones."

His sincerity was almost too much to bear. "You didn't fail me, Booth. It's the Gravedigger that failed us. You aren't to blame for our fate. What's happening has nothing to do with you." Brennan smiled softly before succumbing to the urge to seal her eyes shut.

Logic told her that the odds were against them. She expected Booth to blame himself; he seemed to do that a lot. But it wasn't his fault. That much was the truth. Empty hope was silly, but it was all she had. And sometimes, that's just enough. But Booth had a point. Perhaps he was going to die. Perhaps this was the end. Empty hope wasn't going to save them. Not now, not ever.

"Bones?"

"It's best not to talk, Booth," Brennan whispered. "It wastes oxygen."

Booth cussed under his breath. And then without warning, he brought his fist to the concrete wall with a heart shattering roar of skin against rock. Time seemingly stopped. The walls filled with an ominous, foreboding silence. It was the most horrific scene Brennan had ever witnessed. She had seen the sordid inhumanity of murders...the gruesomeness of a lifeless person, stripped of all she had...abuse...you name it, and she's seen it. But nothing could have ever prepared her for this. _Nothing._ His scream was instantaneous; loud and long and strong, like the last cry of a dying child. It shocked the silence into terrifying cacophony. Through her droopy eyelids, Brennan watched in utter disbelief as blood seeped through his knuckles. Crimson stained the dirt sodden wall and floor, a menacing reminder of Booth's raging temper.

Brennan recoiled in fear. Booth was rampant with fury; his hardened eyes were cold and wild. He seemed possessed. His pride dissipated to humility. With his healthy hand, he gripped his bloody knuckles, whimpering in pain and wailing for help.

"Seeley, please..."

But she trailed off when Booth opened his mouth to speak. "No, Temperance! No! You—" he wagged a finger at Brennan accusingly, "—can't die. _I'll_ die for you. Let me. Let _me_. I'd die a thousand times for you, Bones. Ten thousand times. A million times. Whatever it would take to see you safe." He ended with a heart wrenching sob, painting an all too vivid picture.

Brennan couldn't have spoken even if she wanted to. It was scary, yes, but eerily calming. This man cared for her. Truly cared for her. Tears dropped freely from her eyes, blurring her vision. Booth rocked in place and cradled his wounded hand. His teeth bit into his lower lip, and droplets of red dribbled down his dirt smeared chin.

"I love you, Bones," he murmured under his breath. "Just let me love you. No fighting about it, m'kay?"

Brennan laughed lightly through her tears. A wave of emotions: happiness, hilarity, fear—no, panic—contentment, and pain sent tremors of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Torn between the desire to proclaim her victory in winning Booth's heart and the steadfast need to protect her dying partner, Brennan screamed. Her shrill shriek rang loud and true as she watched Booth's eyes flutter open and closed once...then twice...and then one last time before he drifted to unconsciousness.

She didn't even hear the scraping sound of metal hitting against the roof.

* * *

**_Let's hope that wasn't too OOC...but eventually, Hart Hanson is going to be forced to write the scene in which B&B profess their undying love for each other. If he doesn't, let's just say that he'll have a very, very angry cluster of screaming fans at his doorstep. Sometimes I seriously wonder how he's going to tackle such a feat. Oh well. I suppose we'll find out when the time comes, right? Right. Now, if memory serves, this is when all of my faithful readers write a strongly worded review telling me how I can't kill Booth. Now go and prove me right! (Please, of course.)_**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Hello! Here you have it...a brand new, never before read chapter! Enjoy, my readers, enjoy! Oh, and I attempted to describe a gun in this chapter. If you have knowledge in the area of guns, I apologize profusely because I more than likely screwed that part up.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Duh.

**_-CHAPTER 10-_**

"I'm an artist," she whispered weakly, savoring the dark solitude her office provided. Every light was shut off. Every blind was drawn. Every door was locked. Angela was merely a nearly lifeless, shadowy outline sitting in a sinister abyss. "I'm an artist." She stumbled just to make her mouth form words. She was running low on energy. Running low on stamina. Running low on time.

She brought a cup of coffee to her lips and tipped the rim, ignoring her numb, burnt tongue. She wanted to dissipate to nothing, to surrender to herself, to let go, to give up. She wanted to give up. She was an artist, nothing more. She didn't solve murders. She painted. She sketched. She sculpted. She didn't solve murders.

Sleep. She gave up on that one a long time ago. Every futile attempt resulted in hellish nightmares: blood curdling shrieks for help, the echoes of helpless fists pounding on walls, an earsplitting gunshot or two...Brennan dying. Booth dying. Hodgins dying. Sleep would have to wait. Wallowing in her woes was her only alternative.

Angela shut her eyes and dropped her head back carelessly, almost as if it were too heavy to support, delving deeper into darkness. She knew that resorting to self-pity was lowly and petty, but quite frankly, she didn't care. The tears had subsided long ago...maybe minutes, maybe hours...she really didn't know.

"I'm an artist," she repeated, this time with more vehemence. "I paint. I draw. I draw...death masks. A-and...I'm an artist."

That's how Hodgins found her: a frazzled mess. She was mumbling incoherent bits and pieces under her breath. Her hair was matted on one side, her curls long deflated. Rays of red spiraled from the whites of her eyes. Trails of mascara stained her cheeks, and her lipstick had dried to a crusty, pale red.

"J-Jack?" she murmured. "How did...key...what..."

"I have a spare in my drawer," Hodgins said, revealing a glint of silver in his outstretched palm. The door was still open a crack, casting an eerie, dim light on the objects in the room, but she could only make out the grayish hallows of his face. "We've got him. We've got Lawrence Philips. We caught the bastard. Do you think you can make it back to the FBI build—"

Suddenly Angela sprung to her feet, her bout of depression replaced with a warm feeling of hope. She barreled through the door, the clacking of her heels already echoing in the near empty lab. "Hurry, Jack! Every minute counts." Then turning her head towards the platform, Angela called out, "Cam! Zach! _Please!_"

_That, that bastard!_ her mind screamed. _When he gets a piece of me, he's going to wish he'd never been born._

The car ride was spent in an awkward silence. No one dared to speak. No words of solace were shared. No useless pleasantries were exchanged. You could've cut the tension with a butter knife. Angela kept her bleary eyes fixated to the foggy window nearest her seat. Rain splattered the slick roads and covered the glass in glittery droplets. Clusters of tourists huddled closely together under umbrellas, oblivious to Angela's anguish. The sun refused shine. Instead, it chose to hide behind the grayish puffs of cloud, pregnant with buckets of rain. The weather was as murky and miserable as Angela.

* * *

"Philips, my main man, how's it going?" Burrows adjusted his staid tie and tapped his fingers against the hard table. "It's a pretty gloomy day, wouldn't you agree?" 

Angela fidgeted in her chair, watching intently from the opposite side of the mirror. _He's nothing like Booth._ The thought came unbidden; just the very mention of her friend sent a chill traveling up her spine.

"I ain't done a damn thing," he spat begrudgingly. The man fiddled with the cuffs tightened around his wrists. "This what you call America? Lockin' up an innocent man?"

Lawrence Philips sat opposite of Agent Burrows in the interrogation room. Philips's hair was combed neatly to the side. It shined with a sickening, blackish grease. Angela wouldn't have been surprised to find that he dunked his hair into a can of oil before heading to work. Sleek sweet shimmered from his brow. His gray eyes—cold and distant—betrayed not a flicker of gentility. Rough stubble peppered his chin. Faded designs in blue and orange and red dye were plastered to his arms and neck—God only knew how many tattoos were concealed by his shirt or jeans. His tattered t-shirt was a rusty red, save a few bleach stains here and there. Washed out Levi's hung low on his waist. A few frayed holes cut through the flimsy denim. All things considered, Philips was by no means an amicable man.

"Innocent, you say? I believe that's up for the court's to decide."

Philips cussed. "Innocent till proven guilty...I went to school till I was sixteen. I ain't no retard."

Burrows lifted his hands in mock defense. "My mistake," he said, exaggerating his voice so that he sounded thoroughly astonished. "I didn't know."

Philips twisted again in his cuffs. "Look, I'm missin' somethin' kinda important. If you don't mind—"

"Now, now, Philips. Let's not get fussy. We've just got a couple of questions that need asking. You've been cooperative so far. Don't make this harder than this has to be, m'kay?"

A grimace greeted his response.

"See? That's what I like to hear. Now, what's a good guy like you doing with a bunch of metal scraps hanging around? Seems to me like it'd just be a waste of space," Burrows said casually, pacing around the table as if he were going for a stroll through the park.

"I'm a mechanic. I do odds and ends for cash, you know, to make the ends meet. Ain't much a dropout can do to get by, but I manage. Gotta do what I gotta do for my Misty," he explained, picking idly at his cuticles.

Burrows paused and grinned in Philips's direction. "Misty?"

Philips smiled cheekily, flashing two crooked rows of yellow, rotted teeth. "What, you think a guy like me can't land a woman?"

Burrows shrugged. "Nah, didn't mean nothing by it...So you're a mechanic, eh? What's a mechanic want with a stolen license plate?"

Philips visibly recoiled and grunted, rattling his cuffs against the metal legs of his chair. "I ain't steal nothing!"

Angela turned to Hodgins and frowned, her heart racing. "He's lying."

"I know." Hodgins reached for Angela's hand and gripped it tightly.

Burrows chuckled and nodded. "If you say so. Now, Philips, wanna tell me where you were, oh, say...two days ago?"

"Busy."

Burrows nodded knowingly. "_Do-ing?_" He dragged out the syllables, attempting to make him nervous.

And it was working. Philips was starting to get hot under the collar. Still fidgeting, he murmured, "Camping out in Virginia."

"Any witnesses?"

Philips laughed nervously. "What, you looking for some sorta alibi? I thought you locked me up here for stealing some stupid plates—"

Burrows shook his head, laughing languidly, and dumped a beige container piled high with plastic bags on the table. Lifting one, he tossed it onto the table, just an inch or so out of Philips's reach. "Gotta a video here placing a man of your stature abducting a federal agent and his partner." Deftly, he reached for another bag containing a molted, black round. "A bullet shot from a .358 Magnum straight to Olivia Black that just happens to match—" he paused to grab a larger bag containing a decently sized gun, "—the caliber of this here gun, found in at the Philipses' residence."

Angela watched in awe. When did they get all of this evidence? This stuff didn't just compile by itself over night.

"You can't prove none a that!" Philips wailed, attempting to leap out of his chair. The metal of his cuffs banged against the steely table and chair, echoing loudly through Angela's ears. "I didn't do nothing! Nothing!"

Burrows just shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, really now? Well, what about this..." He extended his hand and retrieved another evidence bag containing a wrinkled sheet of paper with some small, smudgy writing etched to it. "Look's to me like this here is the receipt." Burrows squinted at the handwriting again. "What's this? From an auction, maybe? Yes, it would appear that a one...Lawrence Philips...purchased a concrete cell...just last week...for a measly two grand. Huh. Seems like the Gravedigger's signature kill. Ring any bells now, Philips?"

Philips's eyes were ablaze, bulging from their sockets. Angela recognized the raw terror that coursed through his veins, but she couldn't condone him. Not after what that bastard did. "You ain't got no damned warrant! You been trespassin' on my property! _My property!"_ He trembled with anger and wagged a daunting finger at Burrows. "I ain't do nothing! I'm innocent! Innocent, I tell ya! I'm entitled to a lawyer!"

Angela had seen enough. _You're not getting away with this one, you lowlife bastard. Not after what you've done. Not this time._

What was she supposed to do? Just sit here, watching the man who was murdering her friends? He didn't deserve the air he breathed. He didn't deserve to live. The very ground he stepped on wasn't worthy of him. He deserved to die.

Angela acted on an impulse. Sheer hatred having consumed her, she barreled passed the security guards stationed at the entrance and barged into the room. Surprised by her sudden surge of strength, she cast away the flailing arms trying to block her entry. Rage had elicited a wild, untamed, savage side to her. The only thing on her mind was revenge. Ignoring the guards' protests, she found herself face to face with the slime ball himself, her fist pummeling towards Philips's eye. A cry of pain filled the walls of the interrogation room. Victory was hers.

"You selfish bastard! I've heard enough! Go to hell!" she shrieked, slowly retracting her clenched fist. "Go to hell," she sobbed. "Just go to hell."

"You bitch!" Philips yelled, trying to lift his cuffed hands to his injured eye.

Before she could complain, Hodgins was gripping her arms, dragging her out of room on her heels. "Let me go," she whispered weakly. "Just let me go."

Then blackness lured her into a drowsy slumber.

* * *

A stunned Angela jerked to consciousness. "Ouch!" she shrieked, rubbing the sore spot on her head that had just hit something—hard. As her eyes adjusted to the lighting, she came upon the conclusion that she was moving, probably in a car. After blinking a few more times, her eyes had completely focused. A man was hovering anxiously above her—Hodgins. "Jack?" she asked. 

"She's awake!" Hodgins yelled.

"What the hell is going on?" Angela said, attempting to sit herself upright. "Where am I? Why are we driving so fast?" Turning her head to soak in her surroundings, Angela realized that Cam was driving and Zach was sitting shotgun.

"You punched Philips and then passed out. Hodgins carried you to the car. We're on our way to find Doctor Brennan and Agent Booth," Zach said, the dictionary definition of calm.

Angela studied Zach a moment, trying to comprehend what he had just said. "What?" She sounded breathless...exhausted.

Cam elaborated on his explanation. "Zach was able to compare the caliber of the bullet that killed Olivia Black—the security guard working who was shot on duty—to the bullet found at Philips's place. Police found the receipt and the gun. We were also able to compare the approximate height and weight of our mystery man on the tape to Philip's stature. It appeared to be an indisputable match." Then Cam slammed on the break, jerking all of the passengers forward with a loud _oomph._

Hodgins rubbed his forehead, mumbling under his breath. "Jeez, Cam...Who knew you were such a reckless driver?"

Cam just shook her head and grunted. "It's not my fault this damn car doesn't have any sirens." She veered right before continuing. "After your—outburst—Philips cracked. Gave a full confession. Brennan and Booth are buried somewhere near here," she paused and handed Angela a slip of paper with some coordinates scrawled on it, "in Virginia. Back up is on its way."

Angela tightened her grip on her seatbelt as the car just barely avoided a head-on collision with a pickup truck. "But when? When did you guys get all of this evidence?"

Hodgins smiled tenderly. "I guess you were kind of out of it during the whole thing. You were in your office...Didn't want to wake you."

Angela softened visibly. "Really? You guys did all that?"

"Couldn't just let them die, now, could we?" Cam said, honking the horn furiously as the car came to a screeching halt.

"Why are we stopped?" Angela asked, still a bit confused, if not dazed.

Cam jerked the key from the ignition and swung the door open. "We're here."

Angela's eyes raked over a large, vacant field. A few bits of green sprung forth from the ground. Mounds of dirt rose from the lot, all in different hues of brown, like patches of a quilt. "Where do we start?"

Zach started to squirm. "There!" he said, extending his finger to an area of freshly overturned dirt.

"We need some shovels over here! Stat!" Cam yelled.

Swarms of agents came rushing over on command, all armed with shovels and kits. Angela watched in awe as they set to work, digging piles of dirt away by the pound. _They're going to make it,_ she reminded herself. _Brennan and Booth aren't going to die. They're tough. They're going to be saved._

Angela watched, helplessly, her heart pounding hard against her ribs. She gripped Hodgins's hand with all her strength.

"What got into you out there?" Hodgins asked.

Angela looked over to Hodgins, meeting her eyes with his. "Just doing what Bren would have done. You know, kind of in her honor."

Hodgins grinned and tightened his hold on Angela's hand, swinging a few times.

Then a voice rose above the sounds of shovels sifting through dirt: "I think I've got something!"

* * *

**A/N #2:** I have my fingers crossed that I didn't make anyone out of character, Ange especially. I just figured that since Brennan wasn't there to punch out the bad guy, someone had to, right? Besides, I'm by no means a violent person, but if I were standing face to face with the man who attempted to kill my boyfriend, my best friend (twice!), and then my best friend's...whatever Booth is to Brennan...that man would be sure to get a piece of my mind! So, yeah. I hope you enjoyed it. 

Reviews make me beyond happy! Even just the one-worded smilely faced ones!


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** And here we are again...another new chapter. It's relatively short, but the place where I chose to end it just seemed right. I spent days toying with this chapter. I'm still not completely satisfied with the outcome, but I figured I had to post something before my crowd grows restless. Thanks for the reviews, guys! You're all beyond great!

**Disclaimer:** Bones is not mine, but you already knew that.

**_-CHAPTER 11-_**

Brennan wasn't the type to regret. Regrets, in her mind, symbolized weakness and vulnerability. And she equated weakness and vulnerability with pain. Her years as a foster child taught her that. _Never let them see you sweat. _That was the golden rule. But now...now thousands of regrets flooded back to her, threatening to consume every shred of dignity she had to her name. There were a million things yet to be done, yet to be found...too many unanswered questions and loose ends to tie. What about Angela? And Hodgins? Hell, even Zach? And then there was Russ...her father...the bastard responsible for this...and Booth. Then there was Booth.

What was she supposed to do about him? Talk about a deathbed confession. He...he was the man who loved her. The man who had stolen her heart. The man who she...who she loved.

_Great...now you're sounding like some stupid romance novel, all melodramatic and whatnot. I suppose as an author, though, I'm prone to hyperbole. It's perfectly reasonable to succumb to such irrational thoughts, especially under all of this pressure—Oh, shut up, Brennan! Snap out of it! Booth's dying and all you can think about is your petty, sappy, soap opera-y relationship with him! Get a hold of yourself! Booth's dying!...Booth's dying. Booth's dead. Dead. _

"Oh, God," she whispered, having realization finally sink in. She lifted a hand unconsciously to her mouth, suddenly feeling like a grief stricken widow. Salty tears stung her droopy, bloodshot eyes. She blinked a few times in a futile effort to clear her cloudy vision. Gathering the remnants of her senses, she fumbled awkwardly around, her fingers splayed and searching the hard, dusty floor for Booth's hand. Her muscles ached at the sudden movement, eliciting a low moan from her lips. Dirt clung to her sweaty palms and other cuts and lacerations. She cringed and bit her lip—hard. Pain wasn't an obstacle she was up to tackling.

_So this is what it feels like to die, _Brennan thought ruefully. _I liked it better when I was just writing about it._

Then her thumb grazed his moist, bloody knuckle. A mixture of panic and relief confused and flustered her senses. Lacing her fingers with his, she parted her lips slightly. She did the only thing she could think to do. "Marco," she whispered, her voice thin and wrought with an indescribable dread. _Please...Please don't let it be too late. Please, Booth. Please, say Polo...For me. Say it for me._

But the sinking feeling of defeat reminded her that it _was_ too late. She tightened her grip, a silent plea for his life. "Marco," she repeated desperately. "Marco."

Again...nothing.

"Marco!" she begged, this time more urgently. "Marco! _Marco._"

Knowing her attempts were useless, she drew in a shallow breath and titled her head heavenward, determined not to cry. The whites of her eyes were just barely visible in the dim glow of the flashlight. Her words, straggled and pregnant with pain, came out just barely above a whisper: "_Marco._"

Not even a gasp or groan indicating consciousness.

"No, Booth..._No!_ No." But deep down somewhere—Ange would say her heart, Booth would say her gut—she knew it was too late. "I won't let go, Booth," she promised, squeezing his cold, limp hand. "I'll never let go."

Closing her eyes, she dragged her numb body closer to Booth's limp one. She picked up her head and rested it lightly on his stomach, weakening under death's relentless grip. She listened to her own last labored breaths. Dust and stale nothingness filled her lungs. Her throat felt as though it was on fire, hissing and smoldering like orange flames. A swarm of sticky heat cocooned her, leaving her sweaty and clammy. The thin, flimsy fabric of her clothes clung to her moist skin. Never—_never_ had she ever felt this vulnerable. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't. She wanted to run and hide, but she couldn't. She wanted to punch the wall, but she couldn't.

"I'll never let go," she repeated. "I'll never let go."

Brennan, feeling dizzy and light-headed, fell into a restless limbo. Absently, she wondered if this was how her victims felt just before the end. If this was how her mother felt. Or those twins the Gravedigger captured. _Maybe a gunshot is worse...Maybe rape is...Maybe...Maybe..._

She was in a limbo between life and death. Perhaps Booth was, too. There was no way of knowing. Her time was nearing its end. _Minor correction: my time has reached its end._ For a few moments—maybe minutes—she was eerily calm. There was nothing she could do. There was nothing she could say. There was nothing that was going to save them. She had nothing.

Or so she thought.

Brennan's mind barely registered the sensation of their concrete prison rattling, or the showers of debris and pebbles raining down on her and Booth, or even the desperate cries, demanding to know if anyone was down there. She hardly noticed the sudden rays of light, or the flashlights poking around the cell, or Angela's shriek of terror.

Somewhere in the cobwebs of her fuzzy mind, though, she recognized the voice to be her best friend's. "Ange?" she murmured breathlessly, trying to make sense of what was going on. Soon, though, her mind went blank, spurring a few moments of incessant babbling: "Marco...Marco...Marco...I'll never let go...I'll never let go..."

The normal, quick-witted Brennan would have laughed scornfully at her scattered, fragmented bits and pieces of words. She wouldn't have allowed such mindless behavior. But the sedated, woozy Brennan was powerless and weak—completely oblivious to the set of strong, muscular arms dragging her flaccid body from the prison.

Worrisome voices buzzed vaguely in her mind, but the words were meaningless to her. She unknowingly allowed rough hands to handle her and to lay her on a stretcher. She didn't put up a fight as the elastic strand of an oxygen mask was strapped hastily to her mouth. Her body jerked involuntarily as the ambulance sped off, weaving its way through streets and allies and highways to the nearest hospital.

Perhaps Brennan had beaten time, but what about Booth? _What about Booth?_

* * *

**A/N #2:** Tee-hee...I'm truly evil. Now, I have no idea if I piled on too much emotion, or wrote too little emotion, or if it was over-dramatic, or if it was under-dramatic. I wrote this in an all too happy mood. I even resorted to playing some sad music in the background. Please, if I was lacking in anything or if I had too much of something, don't hesitate to tell me. My goal is to satisfy you as the reader. 

Oh, and did anyone catch the "Titanic" reference? -"I'll never let go."- I couldn't help myself. It just seemed to fit.

So...did I kill Booth? Is Brennan going to be okay? Hmm, we'll have to wait and see what happens next chapter :o) Reviews make me happy!


	12. Chapter 12

**Oh...My...God. I cannot apologize enough! SOOO sorry! Darned schools...always making me work and whatnot. Don't they understand that I have more important things to do with my life? Like, write about Bones, for example? Jeesh. What has become of this world?**

**Now, be warned...this chapter, in my opinion, is a bit rushed. I desperately wanted to post something, so using the last bit of energy I possessed, I wrote something super-d-duper fast, hence the short, choppy chapter. Quite honestly, it's the best I could muster. Advanced courses suck. Royally. Don't let anyone tell you differently. Projects, and then after that, quizzes and tests, and just when you think you're all caught up, you've got more tests and quizzes and projects. Again, so sorry.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, but then, you knew that!**

_**-Chapter 12-**_

_Beep...Beep...Beep..._

Brennan didn't want to open her eyes. She was awake, yes, but opening her eyes would mean she would have to face the real world again. Even lacking her vision, Brennan knew where she was. The feel of the fresh, cool linen beneath her...that sterile, excessively clean scent wafting in the room...the incessant beeping and bleeping of machines...distant voices chatting or weeping in the background...the gentle sting of needles in her wrists...She was in a hospital.

Feeling somewhat unnerved, but driven by her curious nature, she cracked open her right eye, slowly soaking in her surroundings. Four white walls enclosed her, and a lonely window was drawn shut with a hideous, heavy curtain. Maroon and teal floral patterns were stitched into the coarse material. It was the type of thing that an elderly woman would be seen wearing to mass on Sundays.

The walls were sparingly decorated. A cheap portrait of a tacky fruit basket hung crookedly from a single, rusty nail. A few wise proverbs garnished with silly borders and delicate designs were pinned to the stark white. The few pennies splurged to buy the décor did little to improve the bleak atmosphere.

The room was dimly lit with blinking rods, showering the room in a yellow haze. A vase marred with dents and divots rested on the steel side table to the right of her bed. A few shriveled, yellow petals outlined with a layer of crusty brown dangled from the green, bendy stems—a bouquet of daises, her favorite flower. Brennan suspected Hodgins must've picked the last bunch of the barrel...Angela was undoubtedly peeved.

For a moment, she laid there, letting the memories of the past few hours—perhaps days, even—flood back to her. She was buried. Alive. Again.

And Booth was dead.

She froze immediately.

Oh, shit.

Dead.

Her expression remained stony, but her quivering chin betrayed the overwhelming tornado of turmoil threatening to destroy her composure.

_Dead._

She'd never hear his carefree voice reminding her to relax or grab a bite to eat.

_Because he is dead._

She'd never see his impish grin persuading her to take on a case.

_Because he is dead._

She'd never argue with him about that non-existent God of his.

_Because he is dead._

Her muscles tensed. Booth, her Booth, the Booth that never faltered, never weakened, had fallen. He'd abandoned her, just like everyone else. Like her father, and her mother, and her brother. Gone. Forever.

He was..._everything_. And now, poof...gone in the blink of an eye.

Her façade of calmness cracked at the realization. The emotions gated by her stubbornness flung open, and tears tumbled freely from her glassy blue eyes. And that's how Angela found her: weeping and sobbing and wailing like a child, trembling with sheer terror, clenching the white sheets between closed fists.

"Sweetie? Bren? Hey, hey...it's alright." Angela shuffled her feet to Brennan's bedside and stroked her back soothingly. "Calm down, hon. Really...there, there."

Through her labored breaths, Brennan managed to supply a shaky response: "_No!_ It's _not_ alright! Booth...Seeley...He's gone, Ange! Gone. _Gone._" She sniffled, and upon realizing her state of chaos, she composed herself long enough to swipe at her puffy eyes with her shaky fingers.

Silence greeted her, and Brennan mentally prepared herself for what was inevitably to come. Firstly, his funeral. She'd wear black—transform into that grieving widow portrayed in books and movies. She'd tell Parker. She'd tell him of the heaven his Daddy had found. She'd tell him that his Father was a good man, and that he was in a happier, better place, surrounded by angels and God. She'd speak to his family and friends. She'd tell them of the infinite amount of sacrifices he made and the strings he pulled and the lives he saved.

Then, the aftermath. She'd dedicate every book she'd ever write to him. To her first love. To her only love. She'd live everyday with the weight of regret. She'd never date. Never marry. Never have children. She'd watch Parker grow into the great man his Father was. She'd protect him as if he was her own. Booth would want that. She'd savor every moment she was destined to live. She'd never work overtime. She'd always take care to eat every meal. She'd never steal another fry.

"Temperance?"

A tremor of something indefinable coursed through her veins upon hearing the familiar voice. Fear, perhaps? Maybe relief? Happiness? Confusion? Love? She lifted her eyes and focused them on the shadow towering near the door. Her eyes, blurred with salty tears, blinked a few times, frantically trying to identify the figure.

Indistinctively, she knew who he was.

The heavy emotion was tangible. As cheesy as it sounded, she had never felt as relieved as she did just then. She wanted to do move, to cry, to shout, to do something, but her muscles had frozen in place. "Booth?" she finally managed, just barely above a whisper.

"You say something, Bones?"

She dropped her jaw and quickly spanned it back shut. "B-But, you're dead."

He smirked—his signature charm smile. "Do I look like a rotten corpse to you?"

"No...No, you don't."

It was then that she noticed that he was perched comfortably in a wheelchair, dressed in a modest, white, powder-blue-polka-dotted hospital gown. His hair was disheveled, and a prickly layer of stubble darkened his jaw line. Hodgins was wheeling him in, followed by a timid Zach, and a nervous Cam.

"Bring me in, Hodgins," Booth said, his grip on the armrests loosening a bit.

For a moment or two, Brennan and Booth stood absolutely still, grinning like idiots, totally unabashed by the embarrassing predicament.

"Come, guys. Let's leave the lovebirds alone, m'kay?" Angela suggested, winking at Brennan. The door clicked shut, leaving the two in an amicable silence.

"So..."

"So..."

They both laughed uneasily at their awkwardness.

"You're okay?" Brennan asked, gesturing to the impressive scar on his right arm.

Booth wrinkled his brow and glanced down. His mouth formed an "O." "Oh, right. That. Yeah, I guess. I mean, I've seen better days. It hurts like hell, but I'll get over it. How about you? And scratches?"

Brennan nodded. "I think I fractured my arm," she said, shifting her right arm uncomfortably. "I'll be fine, though."

"Oh."

A minute past wordlessly.

Brennan didn't know what to say. Booth loved her, and he wasn't dead. What she supposed to do? Agree? Surrender herself to him? He wanted so much more than she was capable of offering. Booth was a permanent fixture in her life, whether she wanted him or not. He was alive, and he was going to protect her. He loved her. And, as much as it scared her, she loved him back.

"So...we're good?"

Brennan looked over at him and smiled. "Yeah. We're good."

"Hey, Bones?"

"Yeah?"

"Marco."

Brennan grinned. "Polo."

---

**Phew! -Wipes brow- Now, back to math homework. Anyways, now that Booth is alive, you can all relax...and await the epilogue. BUT: that's already written, so never fear. That should be up sometime tomorrow or the day after that. Whenever I find the time to post it. **

**A BIG thank you to all of my readers; you guys are truly awesome! Can't express my thanks enough!**

**Love the feedback:)**


	13. Epilogue

Wow. I'm actually finished. Finally. After, what, months I think? It's done. Yahoo! Sorry it took sooo long to update...I really, really hate school this year. My peers are idiots beyond all reason. But I won't get into that. I'm sure my life story is of no interest to you. Anyhoo, we've come to an end. The very last chapter. (-Breathes sigh of relief-)

Disclaimer: Not mine. Sadly.

**_-EPILOGUE-_**

Brennan was angry. Or at least, she tried to make it seem that way. It was nearly impossible to stay angry with Booth for too long, _especially_ when he grinned. Screw guns; Booth's smile was the deadliest weapon he had to his name.

"I swear, Booth. Sometimes you can be such a child. This is a museum, _not_ a playground. I'd be willing to bet Parker could have behaved better than you. And he's five, Booth. Five!"

He nudged Brennan's elbow softly, his eyes dazzling with their usual playfulness. "I take that as a compliment." This only earned him another smoldering glare of blatant disapproval. "Aw, c'mon, Bones. Lighten up, will you?"

Brennan sighed, feigning annoyance. "No, I will not _lighten up_, as you put it." She punctuated Booth's words with two sloppy air quotes, a trick she had learned from Angela. "You need to _tighten up_. Only you, Booth, _only_ you, could wriggle your way out of a mess like that by flirting with an impressionable security guard. Only you!"

Booth chuckled and draped his arm loosely around Brennan's shoulders. She squirmed a bit under his touch, obviously aggravated by the gesture. He only tightened his grip. "You say that like it's a bad thing," Booth said, clearly unabashed by her efforts to free herself.

Brennan groaned at his happy-go-lucky, carefree disposition. This man was incorrigible—albeit rather comical. But she'd never let _him_ know that. Laughing at his childish antics was _exactly_ what he wanted. Why stroke his ego?

"Seriously, Bones. You have to admit that was funny."

Brennan met his gaze. She bit her lip, trying to suppress the urge to smile. Okay, so maybe it had been a _little_ funny. Fluttering her eyes shut, Brennan played out the whole scene in her mind.

_There was Booth, posing as General George Washington in 'Crossing the Delaware,' his face serious and stiff. His eyes, however, betrayed otherwise. A sparkle of impish delight ruined his pathetic attempts at acting. Of course, his foolish behavior wouldn't have been a problem had they not been in a public place. A museum, really—the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no less. And in the very room where the portrait was displayed with clusters of people trying to observe peacefully. He had even gone so far as to climb on the bench positioned directly before the masterpiece, thus provoking the young (and rather attractive) security guard to take action. _

_She was tactful at first; giving Booth a warning or two, explaining that such inappropriate behavior was intolerable here at the museum. Booth was not so easily persuaded. Much to Brennan's dismay, he addressed the woman in character—as General George Washington._

_"Can't you see I'm busy now, Miss?" he had asked in a pitiful British accent. "I really must be back to my troops now, if you don't mind. Those redcoats are going to get it tonight." Then, probably as an afterthought, he cocked his head and faked a shiver. "'Tis a trifle cold out, wouldn't you agree?"_

_Brennan just about died from embarrassment at that point. She felt her cheeks burn crimson, and she tried to keep her eyes downcast. Of course, he wasn't done. Not yet, anyway._

_"Sir, I advise you to step down. The museum will have to take serious action if you—"_

_But Booth cut her off, all the while keeping his character. "Really, Miss, I must protest. I'm running low on time, and as you can see," he paused to gesture to the men in the painting, "my men are quite exhausted."_

_The security guard sported a naughty grin. It was obvious to Brennan—and apparently to Booth, too—that the young woman had mistaken his display as flirting. In the same ridiculous accent, the girl decided to go along with his act. "Well, _General_, if all goes well tonight, would thee mind accompanying me for, say, a cup of tea? Maybe a dance or two? I mean, I understand that you war heroes have lots of business to attend to, but every man, even a soldier, needs a break. Right?" To make her point all the more clearer, the guard tossed her blondish curls behind her slim shoulders and waggled her eyebrows mischievously. _

_Booth, who was just tickled pink by the whole ordeal, abandoned his imitated stance, but chose not to step down from the bench. "Who am I to disappoint a fine lady like yourself?" _

_Reaching in his pocket, Booth took out a scrap of paper and pencil, quickly jotting down a phone number. Brennan felt her temper flare as he handed the slip to the woman. But perhaps it wasn't her hot temper that was flaring. Perhaps it was jealousy._

"_My name's Lucy," the woman said, forgetting her stupid accent. She was beaming with pride. Brennan just wanted to pop her one. "I'll see you later, General." And with a suggestive wink, Lucy turned away, her hips swaying slightly, leaving a stunned Brennan and a delighted Booth behind her._

Brennan opened her eyes and refocused her attention on the smirking man before her. _Damn that smile!_ she thought bitterly. It was utterly useless to deny the hilarity of it. Brennan could just tell that Booth knew exactly what she was thinking. His eyes—those big, brown, eyes dancing with amusement—confirmed her suspicions. "Okay, so maybe it was a little funny," she relented.

Booth linked their arms together, threading his elbow through hers. He escorted the confused scientist deeper through the galleries. "Just a little?"

"Okay, so it was _a lot_ funny," she conceded. "Are you happy now?"

"Yes," Booth said triumphantly—nah, more like smugly. "Yes, I am."

Brennan swatted at his shoulder playfully with her free arm, earning an indecipherable grin from Booth. Then after a moment of silence, a new thought occurred to her. "Was it real?"

"Was what real?"

"The number."

"What number?"

"The number you gave to Lucy."

"Who's Lucy?"

"The security guard!"

"What security guard?"

Her giddy frame of mind had dissipated to annoyance. Feeling her frustration rising, Brennan yanked her arm away from Booth's. "The security guard that you so shamelessly seduced not five minutes ago!" She stopped walking, instead opting to keep her feet planted firmly on the ground.

He flashed her that infuriating smile of his. "Oh, right..._That_ security guard."

_How many times has he used that damned smile of his today?_ "Well?" Brennan tapped her foot impatiently.

Booth shrugged his shoulders. "Well what?"

"I'm _not_ playing that game again, Booth. Don't you dare try to play innocent."

He sighed and shook his head. "No, the number wasn't real, and no, I don't want to actually date her," Booth said, trying to sound cheerful and upbeat despite Brennan's frosty mood.

She scoffed. "I didn't ask you if you wanted to date her."

Booth took Brennan's hands in his own, turning her body to face his. "No, but you thought it."

_Leave it to my own bitter envy to screw up a first date._ Startled by her own unbidden thought, Brennan brought a hand to her forehead, rubbing it gently. Is that was this was? A date? Admittedly, the suggestion to skip work to escape to New York was born from an argument, and the setting was unconventional at best, but Booth (a man) had asked Brennan (a woman), to accompany him on a non-work related rendezvous. _That sounds suspiciously like a date, Brennan. _

"Can we move on, Booth?" She met his eyes, trying to appear desperate. She really didn't have to act. "Please?"

"Whatever you say, Bones. Whatever you say."

With an impish grin, Booth caught Brennan's hand in his own, swinging gently. At first, Brennan stiffened at the awkward (yet pleasantly tingly) sensation. This was _Booth_. They were partners—partners in the whole sense of the word. Granted, most partners don't hold hands on day trips to cities and museums...nor do they declare their undying love for each other buried underground. But what Brennan and Booth had was different. They...clicked.

_Wow. I sound really cheesy. And pathetic,_ Brennan reprimanded herself. _Perhaps they should hire me to write those soap operas._

But then she relaxed. This was Booth. She didn't have to be nervous with Booth. She could be herself with Booth—her quirky, literal self. He accepted her for who she was. He treated her like a person, not some useless scrap of squint. And that's what she loved about him.

Hand in hand, they perused the labyrinths of corridors and stairwells connecting the wings of the museum in a comfortable silence. Quite honestly, Brennan couldn't think of anything to say. "Booth, I love you, too," perhaps? _No, too blunt._ And she knew petty small talk was out of the question. They had been partners for what, two years? _You can do better than what the weather's like, Brennan._

Looking for a distraction, she allowed her eyes to rake over the exquisite architecture: the marble floors, the stone banisters, the fountains and fancy furnishings. She decided no words were needed. _What's that that Angela would say? Something like...Sometimes all you need is a simple touch? Or maybe actions speak louder than words? Something philosophical like that. Perhaps I shouldn't always tune her out._

Rounding a corner, the duo came upon a crowded room. Brennan felt small and insignificant among the thousands of masterpieces. Children clung to their mother's shoulders and pawed through purses. Old men huddled closely to their wives. Herds of sticky schoolchildren visiting the museum on a field trip poked and prodded at their peers, not paying any mind to the pictures.

Weaving his way through the mob, Booth led Brennan to a particular peculiar canvas. He cocked his head and examined the artwork with great precision. She watched as his eyes picked it apart into tiny pieces. Involuntarily, a smile wormed its way to her lips. _Perhaps he really appreciates the work..._

Then the seriousness of the moment vanished in a blink of an eye when Booth opened his mouth.

"_Head_..." he murmured, his finger lightly tracing the letters engraved into the plastic tablet positioned underneath the painting. "I guess even a genius like Picasso had a hard time coming up with nifty titles, huh?"

Brennan rolled her eyes. She wanted to smile, but she wouldn't—no, _couldn't_—give into his antics again. She settled for a light smack across his chest. "You're missing the point, Booth. Look at this," Brennan ordered, pointing to the intricate designs. "It's amazing, isn't it?"

The painting in question was remarkably breathtaking, albeit a bit strange. A woman's head covered a smallish canvas. Broad strokes of paint smeared the picture in hues of silver, black, and indigo. The face was contorted and squished as if it been forced into a glass vase that was far too small. Black tendrils of hair outlined in periwinkle wrapped around her head.

Extraordinary, yes...but very, very odd.

"It looks like a ripped rag doll sewn back together again."

"You're missing the point, Booth," she sighed, exaggerating her exasperation. "This is a fine example of Cubism." At Booth's blank expression, she elaborated. "See how the left side of the woman's head seems to face the right? How her nose faces forward and to the side at the same time?"

Booth squinted, and after a long moment of two, he nodded slowly.

"Cubism depicts a multitude of viewpoints, rather than just one, in an effort to represent the subject in greater depth. Picasso was one of the first to implement Cubism in his art. His methods made him famous. In this painting, he melded the woman's profile and full face together," she stated matter-of-factly.

Booth shrugged. "My money's still on the rag doll."

Brennan scoffed at his ignorance. They walked through the gallery in an amicable silence; Brennan observed, and Booth...well...he observed Brennan observing.

"You're really into this stuff, aren't you? I thought it'd be too vague for your taste. You know, not enough science," Booth offered after some time.

"I'm an anthropologist, Booth. It's my job to understand other cultures and lifestyles."

"Yeah, but—"

She cut him off. "Art is like a science. Each painter tries conveys an emotion—a message, really—hidden in his art. You have to pick apart each stroke, each color, to uncover what's beneath. Everything's important; from the texture to the boldness to the design...it's the whole package, really. That takes skill. The greats, like Picasso and Matisse and Da Vinci, they managed to encompass a thousand emotions in just one work of art. Those are the true geniuses, Booth."

He smiled. It wasn't his smug smile. And it wasn't his naughty smile. And it definitely wasn't his charm smile. It was a smile she had never seen before. She swallowed the lump in her throat; she liked that smile. Involuntarily, she found herself smiling along side of him.

"What?" she asked shyly. "What's with the smile?

"I'm just watching...you."

Brennan found that she was blushing profusely. "Oh," she murmured quietly, almost silently.

For a moment or two, the pair stood frozen in place, grinning and staring like idiots.

"You're not getting shy on me now, are you, Bones?" Booth asked, his voice laced with its usual boyish pride.

"No," she answered curtly, "I-I'm n-not shy."

Booth's grin widened. "Really? 'Cause you seem kinda shy to me."

Brennan met his gaze. "No." Her voice was firm, but her eyes suggested otherwise. "I'm really not."

"Yes, you are."

"No. I'm not."

"Uh-huh."

"No."

"Yessiree."

"No!"

His voice dropped to a sultry whisper. "Yes..."

And before Brennan could object, she felt Booth's lips crushed against her own. Her immediate reaction was to kiss him back; she _was_ only human. Reveling the tender feeling of his lips massaging her own, she wrapped her arms around his neck, urging him closer. He sucked gently, earning a soft moan in response. Brennan felt her eyes flutter shut. _God...this shouldn't feel so good._

And then, poof, the moment ended.

"Ewe!" sang a chorus of voices from behind.

"Look at the lady kissing, Mommy!"

"Ick! That's dis-_gust_-ing."

Regretfully, Brennan sprang apart from the warm embrace and cast a guilty glance at the older woman ushering three rather exuberant children away from the scene. "I-We...We apologize, ma'am. I hadn't realized...I'm so sorry," she pleaded, trying to sound innocent. Judging by the woman's suspicious glare, Brennan figured she wasn't succeeding.

"Yeah," Booth said. "We'll try to keep our hands off each other."

Brennan instantly reddened. The first thing that came to her mind was to stomp on Booth's foot—hard. And stomp she did.

"Ouch!" Booth hissed, looking pointedly at Brennan.

She ignored him and focused her attention on the angry mother. "Please, we really didn't mean any harm."

The lady muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Kids these days...No sense of decency," and then spluttered a few more choice words before moving on to the next painting.

When Booth was satisfied that the woman and her unfortunate children were out of earshot, he turned to face Brennan and whined, "Heels hurt, you know." He cast a sideways glance at the indent on his shoe. "Was that really necessary?"

Brennan nodded. "Yes. I needed to teach you a lesson."

"I was flirting."

"In front of a woman with three children. I wouldn't want them to pick up on any of your bad habits."

"How is stomping on my foot better than mild innuendo? It probably went over their heads, anyway."

Brennan softened. He had a point. _Damn him!_ Quickly, her mind manufactured a flimsy response. "Perhaps I just wanted to step on your foot."

"And perhaps you're just buying more time so you can ignore the fact that we kissed."

She felt her cheeks flush crimson. _There he goes again with his damned valid points! _

"Temperance," Booth whispered, lifting her chin with his finger. "Do you remember what I said? Before, I mean? When we were trapped?"

Brennan, suddenly overcome with a rush of apprehension, kept her eyes downward and murmured, "No...I don't."

"Really? 'Cause something like that's kinda hard to forget."

Brennan twiddled her thumbs. "Perhaps you should refresh my memory."

Booth smirked. "So that's how it's going to be?" She nodded slowly. "Alright then." He leaned in a bit closer, and Brennan could feel his hot breath on her face. "I love you, Temperance."

The beginnings of a smile curled Brennan's lips, and she tilted her head to meet his eyes. "I don't want to become one of _those_ girls, Booth."

Booth frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not going to be the typical housewife, slaving over a hot stove, tending to the garden or playing with the kids. I can't give you a white picket fence or a tidy green lawn, complete with a few gnomes and bicycles. I won't spend the days baking or doing the laundry, and I certainly won't be the one ironing your suits." Booth opened his mouth to say something, but a hand to his chest stopped him. "I'm not finished. If you're looking for someone like that, someone who'll gladly throw on an apron or weed the backyard, I'm not the one for you. But if you can sacrifice all that, if you're willing to accept me as I am, I'm ready."

Booth flashed his pearly whites at her, taking her by the shoulders. "I wouldn't have you another way."

"Good."

"Good."

"So...is that your way of saying you love me, too?"

Brennan laughed a low, throaty giggle. "No. But this is."

In one swift motion, she closed the gap between their faces, gently kissing his lips. Booth wrapped his arm around her waist, nudging her closer to the warmth of his body. Their tongues battled for control, never ceasing in their relentless grappling. Brennan moaned in his mouth and raked her fingers through his hair, grinning at the sensation.

Rather reluctantly, Booth tore his mouth away and gently pressed his forehead against hers. "Do...do you think we should...should...make a reservation...at a hotel?" he panted, grinning from ear to ear.

Brennan nodded earnestly. "Sounds like a good idea to me."

---

**I'll let your imaginations take it from here; I'm certain they're more than capable! (-Wink, wink-)**

**I'd like to thank all of you one last time for your support and reviews and whatnot. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Look out for more of my fics...I have a few more ideas rolling around in my mind.**

**I love feedback!**

**Thanks again!**

**-Susan :o)**


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